la 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


/ 


yr 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  witii  funding  from 

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lnttp://www.arcliive.org/details/aliensmcfeeOOmcfeiala 


ALIENS 


ALIENS 


BY 


WILLIAM  McFEE 


AUTHOR  or      CASUALS  OF  THE  SEA 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1918 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
Doubleday,  Page  &  Company. 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation  into 
foreign  languages,including  the  Scandinavian 


-PR  ^ 

IP/ 


TO 
MARGERY    ALLINGHAM 


4958-34 

ENGLISH 


PREFACE 

[Publisher's  Note:  It  should  be  explained  that  an 
earlier  version  of  "Aliens"  was  published  in  London 
in  1914,  cind  some  copies  were  also  distributed  in  the 
United  States.  After  the  issue  of  "Casuals  of  the  Sea** 
the  present  publishers  purchased  the  rights  to  "Aliens** 
and  urged  Mr.  McFee  to  re-write  the  story.  His 
account  of  the  history  of  this  book  is  here  inserted,  and 
will  undoubtedly  take  its  place  among  the  most  enter- 
taining and  interesting  prefaces  in  modern  literature.] 

SO  many  people  are  unaware  of  the  number  of 
works  of  fiction  which  have  been  rewritten 
after  pubhcation.  I  was  rather  surprised  my- 
self when  I  came  to  recapitulate  them.  I 
wouldn't  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  second  editions,  like 
second  thoughts,  are  the  best,  because  I  at  once  think 
of  "The  Light  that  Failed."  But  I  do  beheve  that 
under  the  very  unusual  circumstances  of  the  genesis 
and  first  issue  of  Aliens  I  am  justified  in  offering  a 
maturer  and  more  balanced  representation  of  what 
that  book  stands  for. 

The  notion  of  a  character  like  Mr.  Carville  came 
to  me  while  I  was  busy  finishing  "Casuals  of  the 
Sea"  during  the  late  fall  of  1912.  A  short  story  was 
the  result.  It  went  to  many  likely  and  unlikely 
publishers,  for  I  knew  very  little  of  the  field.  I 
don't  know  whether  the  "Farm  Journal"  (of  which 
I  am  a  devoted  reader)  got  it,  but  it  is  quite  prob- 

vii 


viii  PREFACE 

able.  A  mad  artist  who  lived  near  us,  in  an  unoccu- 
pied store  along  with  a  studio  stove  and  three  priceless 
Kakemonos,  told  me  he  would  "put  me  next"  an 
editor  of  his  acquaintance.  I  forget  the  name  of  the 
paper  now,  but  I  think  it  had  some  connection  with 
women's  clothes.  I  sent  in  my  story,  but  unfor- 
tunately my  friend  forgot  to  put  me  next,  for  I  got 
neither  cash  nor  manuscript.  The  next  time  I 
passed  the  empty  store,  I  stepped  in  to  explain,  but 
the  artist  had  a  black  eye,  and  his  own  interest  was 
so  engrossed  in  Chinese  lacquer-work  and  a  stormy 
divorce  case  he  had  coming  on  shortly,  that  I  was 
struck  dumb.  What  was  a  short  story  in  comparison 
with  such  issues?  And  I  knew  he  had  no  more 
opinion  of  me  as  an  author  than  I  had  of  him  as  an 
artist. 

But  when  another  typed  copy  came  back  from  a 
round  of  visits  to  American  magazines,  I  kept  it. 
I  had  a  strong  conviction  that,  in  making  a  book 
of  what  was  then  only  a  rather  vague  short  story,  I 
was  not  such  a  fool  as  the  mad  artist  seemed  to 
think.  I  reckoned  his  judgment  had  been  warped 
by  the  highly  eccentric  environment  in  which  he  de- 
lighted. The  store  in  which  he  lived,  like  a  rat  in 
a  shipping-case,  was  new  and  blatant.  It  thrust 
its  blind,  lime-washed  window-front  out  over  the 
sidewalk.  Over  the  lime-wash  one  could  see  the 
new  pine  shelving  along  the  walls  loaded  with  in- 
numerable rolls  of  wall-paper.  Who  was  responsible 
for  this  moribund  stock  I  could  never  discover. 
Perhaps  the  mad  artist  imagined  them  to  be  price- 
less Kakemonos  of  such  transcendent  and  blinding 


PREFACE  ix 

beauty  that  he  did  not  dare  unroll  them.  They  re- 
sembled a  library  of  papyrus  manuscripts.  Here  and 
there  among  them  stood  some  exquisitely  hideous 
dragon  or  bird  of  misfortune.  He  had  a  bench  in  the 
store  too,  I  remember,  and  seemed  to  have  some 
sort  of  business  in  mending  such  things  for  dealers. 
And  he  did  a  little  dealing  himself  too,  for  his  mad- 
ness had  not  destroyed  his  appreciation  of  the  value 
of  money.  He  would  exhibit  some  piece  of  Oriental 
rubbish,  and  when  one  had  politely  admired  it,  he 
would  say  pleasantly,  "Take  it!"  One  took  it,  and 
a  week  later  he  would  borrow  its  full  value  as  a  loan. 
With  his  Kakemonos  he  was  even  more  mystifying, 
for  he  would  develop  sudden  and  quite  unnecessary 
bursts  of  rage,  and  announce  his  refusal  of  anything 
under  a  million  for  them.  And  then  he  would  ex- 
hibit them,  taking  them  from  a  broken  Libby,  McNeill 
and  Libby  milk  case  under  his  camp-bed,  and,  hold- 
ing the  rolled  splendours  aloft,  with  a  grandiose 
gesture,  as  of  some  insane  nobleman  showing  his 
interminable  pedigree,  he  would  let  the  thing 
unfold  and  one  beheld  a  sad  animal  of  unknown 
species  sitting  in  a  silver  winter  landscape,  or  a 
purple  silk  sunset.  And  over  it  glared  the  mad 
artist,  a  sallow  fraud,  yet  watching  with  some  im- 
patience how  the  stranger  regarded  this  secret 
preoccupation  of  his  life.  I  knew  nothing  about 
such  things  and  knew  he  scorned  me  for  my  ignor- 
ance. Like  most  artists,  he  was  an  unconscious 
liar.  He  strove  also  to  give  an  impression  of  tre- 
mendous power.  He  had  gestures  which  were  sup- 
posed to  register  virility,  irresistible  force,  abysmal 


X  PREFACE 

contempt.  And  if  the  word  had  not  been  worked  to 
death  by  people  who  don't  know  its  meaning,  I 
would  have  added  that  he  was  a  votary  of  the 
kultur  of  his  race.  His  ideal,  I  suppose,  was  more 
the  Renaissance  virtu  than  our  milk-and-water  virtue. 
He  made  me  feel  that  I  was  a  worm.  In  short,  he 
was  a  very  interesting,  provocative  and  exasperating 
humbug,  and  his  very  existence  seemed  to  me  suffi- 
cient reason  for  turning  Aliens  into  a  book  which 
would  shed  a  flickering  light  upon  the  fascinating 
problem  of  human  folly. 

For  that  is  what  it  amounted  to.  I  was  obsessed 
with  the  problem  of  human  folly,  and  he  focussed 
that  obsession.  It  often  happens  that  the  character 
which  inspires  a  book  never  appears  in  it.  In  all 
sincere  work  I  think  it  must  be  so.  And,  with  the 
mad  artist  in  my  mind  all  the  time,  I  got  a  good 
deal  of  fun  out  of  writing  the  book,  and  that,  after 
all,  is  the  main  reason  one  has  for  writing  books.  I 
finished  the  thing  and  immediately  became  de- 
spondent, a  condition  from  which  I  was  raised  by 
an  unexpected  admirer.  This  was  the  elderly  gen- 
tleman who  did  my  typewriting.  He  dwelt  half 
way  up  a  tall  elevator  shaft  in  Newark,  N.  J.,  and, 
as  far  as  I  could  gather,  had  farmed  himself  out  to  a 
number  of  lawyers,  none  of  whom  had  much  to  do 
except  telephone  to  each  other  and  smoke  domestic 
cigars.  They  say  no  man  is  a  hero  to  his  valet.  I 
have  never  had  a  valet  except  on  ship-board,  and 
I  have  no  desire  to  compete  with  the  heroes  of  the 
average  steward;  but  I  have  had  a  typist,  and  I 
suppose  it  is  equally  rare  for  an  author  to  be  inter- 


PREFACE  xi 

esting  to  his  amanuensis.  And  when  I  climbed  one 
day  (the  elevator  being  out  of  order)  to  the  eyrie 
where  my  elderly  henchman  had  his  nest,  his  bald 
head  was  shining  in  the  westering  sun,  and  he 
beamed  like  a  jolly  old  sun  himself  as  he  apologised 
for  not  having  finished.  "He  had  got  so  interested 
in  the  parties,"  he  explained,  "that  he  hadn't  got 
on  as  quick  as  he'd  hoped  to."  I  still  like  to  think 
he  was  sincere  when  he  said  this.  Anyhow,  I  was 
encouraged.  I  bound  up  my  copies  of  typescript 
and  shoved  them  out  into  the  world.  They  came 
back.  They  became  famiUar  at  the  local  post- 
oflSce.  The  mad  artist,  meeting  me  with  a  parcel, 
would  divine  the  contents  and  inquire,  "Well,  and 
how's  Aliens?"  He  would  also  inform  me  that  there 
were  several  books  called  by  that  title.  He  would 
regard  me  with  a  glassy-eyed  grin  as  I  hurried  on. 
He  had  no  more  faith  in  me  than  he  had  in  himself. 
Sometimes  he  would  pretend  not  to  see  me,  but  go 
stalking  down  the  avenue,  his  fists  twisted  in  his 
pockets,  his  head  bent,  his  brows  portentous  with 
thought   ...   a  grotesque  humbug! 

But  the  time  came  when,  as  I  have  explained 
elsewhere,  I  had  had  enough  of  artists  and  books. 
Of  art  I  never  grow  weary,  but  she  calls  me  over  the 
world.  I  suspect  the  sedentary  art- worker.  Most 
of  all,  I  suspect  the  sedentary  writer.  I  divide  au- 
thors into  two  classes — genuine  artists,  and  edu- 
cated men  who  wish  to  earn  enough  to  live  like 
country  gentlemen.  With  the  latter  I  have  no 
concern.  But  the  artist  knows  when  his  time  has 
come.    In  the  same  way  I  turned  with  irresistible 


xii  PREFACE 

longing  to  the  sea,  whereon  I  had  been  wont  to  earn 
my  hving.  It  is  a  good  Hfe  and  I  love  it.  I  love  the 
men  and  their  ships.  I  find  in  them  a  never-ending 
panorama  which  illustrates  my  theme,  the  problem 
of  human  folly !  Sufiice  it,  I  sent  my  manuscripts  to 
London,  looked  out  my  sea  dunnage,  and  the  pub- 
lishing oflSces  of  New  York  City  knew  me  no  more. 

About  a  year  later  I  received  the  proofs  of  Aliens 
while  in  Cristobal,  Canal  Zone.  Without  exaggera- 
tion, I  scarcely  knew  what  to  do  with  them.  The 
outward  trappings  of  literature  had  fallen  away  from 
me  with  the  heavy  northern  clothing  which  I  had 
discarded  on  coming  south.  I  was  first  assistant 
engineer  on  a  mail-boat  serving  New  Orleans,  the 
West  Indies  and  the  Canal  Zone.  I  had  become 
inured  once  more  to  an  enchanting  existence  which 
alternated  between  bunk  and  engine-room.  I  re- 
garded the  neatly-bound  proof -copy  of  Aliens  with 
misgiving.  My  esteemed  Chief,  a  Scotsman  in  whose 
family  learning  is  an  honorable  tradition,  suggested 
an  empty  passenger  cabin  as  a  suitable  study.  I 
forget  exactly  how  the  proof-reading  was  dove-tailed 
into  the  watch  below,  but  dove-tailed  it  was,  and 
when  the  job  was  done,  the  book  once  more  sailed 
across  the  Atlantic. 

But  I  was  not  satisfied.  Through  the  dense  jungle 
of  preoccupying  affairs  in  which  I  was  buried  I 
could  see  that  I  was  not  satisfied.  I  was  trying  to 
eat  my  cake  and  have  it.  I  make  no  complaint.  If 
there  be  one  person  for  whom  I  cherish  a  profound 
dislike  it  is  the  literary  character  who  whines  be- 
cause his  circumstances  hinder  his  writing.     I  was 


PREFACE  xiii 

no  George  Gissing,  cursed  with  a  dreary  distaste  of 
common  toil  and  mechanical  things.  I  love  both 
the  Grecian  Isles  and  gas-burners.  But  for  the  mo- 
ment I  had  chosen  gas-burners,  or  rather  steam 
engines,  and  I  knew  I  could  not  have  both.  So 
Aliens  went  back  to  London,  and  I  went  my  daily 
round  of  the  Caribbean.  I  felt  that  for  once  I 
could  trust  the  judgment  of  a  first-class  publisher. 

The  publishers  of  this  new  edition  will  understand 
me  when  I  say  that  an  author  has  no  business  to 
trust  blindly  to  the  judgment  of  any  house,  however 
first-class.  He  has  no  business  to  do  so  because  that 
outside  estimate  of  his  work  must  of  necessity  be 
based  on  scanty  data.  The  publisher,  for  all  his 
enthusiasm,  takes  a  chance,  sometimes  a  pretty 
long  one.  An  author,  as  I  conceive  it,  must  be  his 
own  most  uneasy,  captious,  cantankerous  critic.  He 
dare  not  delegate  this  job  to  anyone  else,  for  that 
way  lies  the  pot-boiler  and  the  formal  romance,  the 
"made"  book.  I  was  busy,  and  let  go  the  reins. 
And  I  place  on  record  here  my  gratitude  to  those 
who  knew  enough  and  cared  enough  to  recall  me  to 
my  post,  that  I  might  deal  with  the  book  afresh  and 
do  justice  to  the  reader. 

Much  happened  between  the  day  when  I  mailed 
my  proofs  from  the  big  Post  Office  on  Canal  Street 
in  New  Orleans,  and  the  day  when  I  set  out  to  write 
this  present  version.  I  was  now  in  another  hem- 
isphere and  the  world  was  at  war.  By  a  happy 
chance  I  laid  hold  of  a  copy  of  Aliens,  sent  previously 
to  a  naval  relative  serving  on  the  same  station.  Up 
and  down  the  ^Egean  Sea,  past  fields  of  mines  and 


xiv  PREFACE 

fields  of  asphodel,  past  many  an  isle  familiar  in 
happier  days  to  me,  I  took  my  book  and  my  new 
convictions  about  human  folly.  It  was  a  slow  busi- 
ness, for  it  so  chanced  that  my  own  contribution  to 
the  war  involved  long  hours.  But  Aliens  grew. 
'  And  one  evening,  I  remember,  I  left  off  in  the 
middle  of  Mr.  Carville's  courtship  and  went  to  bed. 
We  were  speeding  southward.  It  was  a  dark,  moon- 
less night.  The  islands  of  the  Grecian  Archipelago 
were  roofed  over  with  a  vault  of  low-lying  clouds,  as 
if  those  ferriferous  hummocks  and  limestone  peaks 
were  the  invisible  pillars  of  an  enormous  crypt.  And 
since  across  the  floor  of  this  crypt  many  other  ves- 
sels were  speeding  without  lights,  it  was  not  won- 
derful that  for  once  our  good  fortune  failed  us.  For 
we  had  had  good  fortune.  Aeroplanes  had  bombed, 
and  missed  us  by  yards.  Zeppelins  had  come  down 
in  flaming  ruin  before  our  astonished  eyes.  Islands 
had  loomed  under  the  very  fore-foot  of  our  ship  in  a 
fog,  and  we  had  gone  astern  in  time.  But  this  time 
it  was  our  turn.  We  were,  in  the  succinct  phrase- 
ology of  the  sea,  in  collision. 

The  story  of  that  night  will  no  doubt  be  told  in 
its  proper  place  and  time.  Suffice  it  that  for  some 
weeks  we  were  laid  aside,  and  local  Levantine  talent 
invoked  to  make  good  the  disaster.  And  in  spite  of 
the  clangour  of  rivetters,  the  unceasing  cries  of 
fezzed  and  turbaned  mechanics,  and  the  heavy  blows 
of  sweating  carpenters,  caulkers  and  blacksmiths. 
Aliens  grew.  There  was  a  blessed  interval,  between 
five  o'clock,  when  my  day's  work  ended,  and  the  late 
cabin-dinner   at   six-thirty,    when   the   setting   sun 


PREFACE  XV 

shone  into  my  room  and  illumined  my  study-table — • 
a  board  laid  across  an  open  drawer.  And  Aliens 
grew.  For  some  time,  while  the  smashed  bulwarks 
and  distorted  frames  of  the  upper-works  were  being 
hacked  away  outside  my  window,  the  uproar  was 
unendurable,  and  I  would  go  ashore,  note-book  in 
pocket,  to  find  a  refuge  where  I  could  write.  I  would 
walk  through  the  city  and  sit  in  her  gardens;  and 
the  story  grew.  I  found  obscure  cafes  where  I  could 
sit  with  coffee  and  narghileh,  and  watch  the  Arabic 
letter-writers  worming  the*  thoughts  from  their  in- 
articulate clients;  and  Aliens  grew.  And  later,  near 
the  Greek  Patriarchate,  I  found  that  which  to  me 
is  home — a  second-hand  book-store.  For  I  mark  my 
passage  about  this  very  wonderful  world  by  old 
book-stores.  London,  Glasgow,  Liverpool,  Rotter- 
dam, Genoa,  Venice,  New  York,  Ancona,  Rouen, 
Tunis,  Savannah,  Kobe  and  New  Orleans  have  in 
my  memory  their  old  book-stores,  where  I  could 
browse  in  peace.  And  here  in  Alexandria  I  found 
one  that  might  have  been  lifted  out  of  Royal  Street 
or  Lafayette  Square.  A  ramshackle  wooden  build- 
ing, bleached  and  blistered  by  many  a  dust-storm 
and  torrid  sun,  its  cracked  and  distorted  window- 
panes  were  curtained  with  decayed  illustrated  papers 
in  many  tongues,  discoloured  Greek  and  Italian 
penny-dreadfuls,  and  a  few  shelves  of  cheap  curios. 
Over  the  door  a  long  shingle  displayed  on  one  side 
the  legend  Lihrairie  Universelle,  while  the  other  bore 
the  word  BIBAIOIIQAION,  which  you  may  translate 
as  it  please  your  fancy.  Inside  the  narrow  doors 
were  craters  and  trenches  and  redoubts  and  dug- 


xvi  PREFACE 

outs  of  books.  They  lay  everywhere,  underfoot  and 
overhead.  They  ran  up  at  the  back  in  a  steep  glacis 
with  embrasures  for  curios,  and  were  reflected  to 
infinity  in  tall  dusty  pier-glasses  propped  against  the 
walls.  High  up  under  the  mansard  roof  hung  an 
antique  oriental  candelabrum  with  one  candle. 
Hanging  from  twine  were  stuffed  fish  of  grotesque 
globular  proportions,  and  with  staring  apoplectic 
eyes.  A  stuffed  monkey  was  letting  himself  down, 
one-hand,  from  a  thin  chain,  and  regarded  the  cus- 
tomer with  a  contemptuous  sneer,  the  dust  lying 
thick  on  his  head  and  arms  and  his  exquisitely 
curled  tail.  And  out  of  an  apparently  bomb-proof 
shelter  below  several  tons  of  books  there  emerged  a 
little  old  gentleman  it.  a  brilliant  tarbusk,  who  looked 
inquiringly  in  my  direction.  For  a  moment  I  paused, 
fascinated  by  the  notion  that  I  had  discovered  the 
great  Library  of  Alexandria,  reported  burnt  so  many 
centuries  ago.  For  once  within  those  musty,  warped, 
unpainted  walls  one  forgot  the  modern  world.  I 
looked  out.  Across  the  street,  backed  by  the  im- 
mense and  level  blaze  of  an  Egyptian  sunset,  blocks 
of  Carrara  marble  blushed  to  pink  with  mauve 
shadows,  and  turned  the  common  stone  mason's 
yard  into  a  garden  of  gigantic  jewels.  The  hum  of 
a  great  city,  the  grind  of  the  trolley-cars-,  the  cries  of 
the  itinerant  sellers  of  nuts  and  fruit,  of  chewing 
gum  and  lottery-tickets,  of  shoe  laces  and  suspenders, 
of  newspapers,  and  prawns,  and  oysters,  and  eggs, 
and  bread-,  the  rattle  of  carriages  and  all  the  flashing 
brilliance  of  the  palaces  of  pleasure,  were  shut  out 
from  that  quiet  street  near  the  Greek  Patriarchate, 


PREFACE  xvii 

I  had  the  sudden  notion  of  asking  for  permission  to 
sit  in  that  Universal  Library,  and  write.  And  Mr. 
Bizikas,  the  httle  old  gentleman  in  the  vivid  tarbush, 
who  was  lighting  a  very  dirty  tin  lamp  to  assist  the 
one  candle  in  the  oriental  candelabrum,  had  no  ob- 
jection. I  have  a  feeling  occasionally  that  here  I 
topped  the  rise  of  human  felicity,  as  I  conceive  it. 
Perhaps  I  did.    Anyhow,  Aliens  grew. 

I  must  be  brief.  It  came  to  pas^,  after  certain 
days,  that  Aliens  grew  to  accomplishment,  and  I 
made  my  way  into  the  city  through  one  of  the  many 
gates  of  the  harbour.  I  sought  the  office  of  the 
Censor  in  a  large  building  with  a  courtyard.  It  was 
a  large  room  on  the  top  floor,  with  a  long  table 
occupied  by  busy  orderlies  opening  and  stamping 
letters  with  astonishing  rapidity.  At  the  back, 
flanking  an  open  balcony  over  whose  balustrade  I 
could  see  the  blue  Mediterranean  and  a  flawless 
sapphire  sky,  were  two  roll-top  desks  concealing  two 
officers  whose  polished  bald  heads  shone  above 
stacks  of  papers.  At  the  deferential  insistence  of 
an  orderly,  one  of  the  heads  rose,  and  a  large,  ruddy 
Yorkshire  face  examined  the  intruder.  In  some 
diffidence  I  explained  the  delicate  nature  of  my 
mission.  I  opened  my  parcel  and  displayed,  with 
the  pride  of  a  parent,  how  Aliens  had  grown.  The 
officer  rose  to  his  feet,  a  tall,  strong,  north-country 
figure,  and  looked  keenly  at  me  over  his  glasses. 
Was  I  a  British  subject?  What  was  the  nature  of 
the  manuscript?  What  was  the  name  of  my  trans- 
port? What  was  my  rank?  And  so  on.  To  all  of 
which  I  gave  courteous  and,  I  hope,  truthful  an- 


xviii  PREFACE 

swers.  "Well,  there's  a  great  deal  of  it,  you  know,'* 
he  remarked.  I  bowed.  I  knew,  having  written  it. 
"Well,  call  in  a  week's  time."  I  retired,  silently 
blessing  the  British  Army  Officer  for  his  blunt 
courtesy,  his  admirable  brevity  and  matchless  com- 
mon sense. 

And  I  called  in  a  week's  time.  It  appeared  that 
the  Captain  had  gone  through  Aliens  and  was  satis- 
fied that  it  divulged  nothing  of  military  importance, 
nor  did  it  provide  any  comfort  for  the  King's  ene- 
mies. An  orderly,  a  fattish  person  with  a  fine 
mustache  and  scorched  knees,  was  commanded  to 
secure,  seal  and  register  the  parcel.  The  tall  officer 
with  the  good-humoured  country-gentleman's  face 
came  to  the  balcony  and  discussed  for  a  moment  the 
production  of  literature  under  difficulties.  "You 
know,  we  have  very  strict  orders,"  he  remarked, 
looking  down  thoughtfully.  "We  must  be  most 
careful  .  .  .  h — m  .  .  .  Neutral  countries  .  .  . 
America."  He  seemed  to  regard  the  idea  of  America 
with  misgiving.  I  agreed  that  America  was  food  for 
thought.  "And  you  write  books  at  sea?"  he  in- 
quired. Yes,  I  said,  anywhere,  everywhere.  He 
nodded.  "It  is,  you  know,"  I  added  slyly,  "our 
national  art."  He  looked  grave  at  this  and  said  he 
supposed  so.  By  this  time  the  orderly  had  tied  and 
sealed  Aliens  in  so  many  places  that  I  pitied  anyone 
who  tried  to  tamper  with  it;  and  so,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  my  profound  appreciation,  I  retired.  The 
officer  bowed,  and  the  orderly  and  I  clattered  down 
stairs  and  made  our  way  into  the  Rue  de  la  Poste. 
He  was  a  Londoner,  and  professed  great  interest  in 


PREFACE  xix 

literature,  having  a  brother  a  news  agent.  We  had 
some  beer  together,  when  Aliens  had  been  safely 
bestowed.  He  was  getting  his  leave  soon,  he  said, 
and  I  informed  him  I  hoped  to  get  mine  in  a  month 
or  so.  We  drank  to  our  three  years'  active  service 
and  to  our  safe  trip  home.  He  was  much  impressed 
by  this  coincidence,  as  he  called  it,  and  begged  me, 
if  I  happened  down  Deptford  way  at  all,  to  call  and 
see  him  over  his  brother's  shop.  I  asked  him  if  he 
knew  a  certain  old  book-store  in  Deptford,  where  I 
had  once  gotten  a  Bandello's  Novelle  for  four  shil- 
lings, and  he  said  he  knew  it  well.  But  I  think  he 
only  said  this  to  please  an  obvious  bibliomaniac.  We 
parted  with  mutual  good  wishes,  and  I  went  back  to 
the  ship. 

And  so  I  send  it  to  you,  trusting  to  my  good  for- 
tune to  get  it  through.  It  may  never  reach  you, 
and  I  shall  have  had  my  labour  in  vain.  It  may  be, 
also,  that  ere  it  see  the  light  I  shall  have  gone  away 
myself,  an  aggrieved  participant  in  one  of  the  trivial 
disasters  of  the  sea-affair.  But  whatever  betide,  I 
shall  have  had  my  shot  at  the  alluring  yet  ineluct- 
able problem  of  human  folly. 

William  McFee. 

Port  Said,  Egypt,  April  14,  1917. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PREFACE       -       -           -           -           -           -  vii 

CHAP. 

I.    THE    "scalding'*        -           -           -           -  3 

II.    HIS    CHILDREN  -----  16 

III.  A   LETTER   FROM   WIGBOROUGH  -           -  28 

IV.  MISS   FRAENKEL           -           -           -           -  41 
V.    HE   COMES           -           -           -   '        -           -  56 

VI.    HE    BEGINS   HIS   TALE           -            -            -  70 

VII.    DIAPORESIS          -----  105 

VIII.    HE    CONTINUES   HIS   TALE-           -           -  115 

IX.    WE   AWAIT    DEVELOPMENTS           -            -  168 

X.    ANOTHER  LETTER  FROM  WIGBOROUGH  279 

XI.    MR.     CARVILLE     SEES    THREE     GREEN 

LIGHTS    ------  296 

XII.    THE   VISION   FROM   THE   KILLS    -           -  327 

XIII.  MISCELLANY        -----  352 

XIV.  DISCUSSION          -----  374 
XV.    CONCLUSION        -           -           -           -           -  398 


ALIENS 


CHAPTER  I 

The  "Scalding" 

LONG  before  any  of  us  three  had  seen  him  we 
had  become  aware  of  his  existence,  and  our 
brains  were  continually  busy  about  him.  His 
appearance,  his  age,  his  gait,  his  history,  his 
voice,  even  his  ultimate  destiny,  we  conjectured  over 
and  over  again  as  one  by  one  the  evidences  of  his 
existence  accumulated  and  developed  in  our  con- 
sciousness. It  grew  to  be  quite  a  game  with  us,  this 
collection  of  data,  and  filled  in  much  of  our  leisure 
before  we  became  acquainted  with  many  of  our 
neighbours. 

I  think  Bill  was  the  first  to  notice  something 
unusual  about  the  family  next  door,  something 
neither  English  nor  American.  "What  do  you 
think!"  she  exclaimed,  coming  in  one  morning  as 
I  was  busy  writing.  "She's  got  a  little  iron  grate 
on  legs,  and  there's  charcoal  burning  in  it." 

"Who?  Where?"  I  asked,  coming  out  of  my 
work  with  a  start.  I  was  composing  an  advertise- 
ment at  the  time. 

"Mrs.  Carville,"  said  Bill,  pointing  to  the  win- 
dow. 

From  the  window,  across  the  intervening  plot  of 
ground,   we   saw  our  neighbour  stooping  over  one 

s 


4  ALIENS 

of  those  small  portable  affairs  so  popular  in  Italy 
and  known  as  scaldini,  mere  iron  buckets  in  which 
coke  or  charcoal  burns  without  flame,  and  which 
are  carried  from  room  to  room  as  occasion  arises. 

"I  thought,"  I  said,  "that  she  was  Italian.  That 
is  a  scaldino." 

"Is  it?"  said  Bill.  "They'll  set  the  house  on  fire 
if  they  use  that  here." 

My  friend  is  rather  hard  on  the  Mediterranean 
nations,  giving  as  a  reason  "they  are  so  dirty,"  but 
meaning,  I  imagine,  that  they  lack  our  habits  of 
order  and  dignified  reticence.  Their  colonies  in 
American  cities  and  country-side  are  not  models  for 
town-planners  and  municipal  idealists.  And  Bill  has, 
in  addition,  much  of  the  average  Englishwoman's 
suspicion  of  foreign  domestic  economy.  The  past 
glories  of  Greece  and  Spain  and  Rome  are  nothing 
to  her  if  the  cooking  utensils  of  the  present  genera- 
tion are  greasy  or  their  glassware  unpolished.  There 
is,  wlien  one  gets  well  away  from  them,  quite  a 
Dutch  primness  and  staid  rectangularity  about  Eng- 
lish ideals  in  the  matter  of  front  and  back  yards, 
hen-runs,  flower-beds  and  the  like.  And  although 
her  own  small  tract  of  New  Jersey  woefully  failed  to 
come  anywhere  near  those  same  ideals  she  had  a 
weakness  for  the  gentle  disparagement  of  Latin  un- 
tidiness and  lack  of  finish. 

But,  firm  believers  as  we  were  in  the  authentic 
picturesqueness  of  American  life,  if  we  only  looked 
for  it,  we  had  been  struck  more  than  once  by  the 
fugitive  glimpses  of  herself  which  our  neighbour  had 
so  far  vouchsafed  to  us.    To  tell  the  bald  truth,  we 


ALIENS  5 

stood  in  awe  of  her.  We  discriminated  between  her 
and  her  environment.  And  we  paid  to  her,  in  spite 
of  our  prejudices  and  limitations,  a  certain  homage 
which  beauty  ever  commands  and  receives,  so  po- 
tent is  its  inspiration  to  the  hearts  of  men. 

On  revision,  that  word  "beauty"  scarcely  stands 
its  own  in  this  connection,  and  for  this  reason.  We 
three,  deriving  our  entire  sustenance  from  art  in 
some  guise  or  other,  had  widely  divergent  opinions 
upon  the  indispensable  attributes  of  beauty  'per  se. 
From  my  experience  of  artists,  this  condition  of 
things  is  not  imusual.  We  always  agreed  to  differ. 
Bill  rapturous  among  her  flowers  and  revelling  in 
their  colour;  Mac  catching  with  a  fine  enthusiasm 
and  assured  technique  the  fugitive  tints  of  a  sunrise 
through  a  tracery  of  leaves  and  twigs;  and  I,  quies- 
cently receptive,  pondering  at  intervals  upon  the 
sublime  mystery  of  the  human  form,  especially  the 
grandiose  renderings  of  it  in  the  works  of  Michael 
Angelo.  Thus  it  will  be  seen  that  I  alone  was  un- 
prejudiced in  my  predilections,  and  qualified,  how- 
ever inadequately,  to  do  justice  to  Mrs.  Carville. 
Mac  was  annoyed  because  she  had  cut  down  a  tree. 
That  it  was  her  own  tree  made  no  difference.  To 
cut  down  a  living  tree  was,  in  Mac's  view,  a  sac- 
rilege. Bill  had  an  additional  grievance  in  the  fact 
that  Mrs.  Carville  not  only  grew  no  flowers  herself, 
but  permitted  her  chickens  to  wander  deleteriously 
among  ours. 

A  brief  and  passing  glance  from  the  street  would 
have  given  a  stranger  no  inkling  of  the  state  of 
affairs.     Indeed,  Mrs.  Carville's  domain  and  ours 


6  ALIENS 

were  un-American  in  the  fact  that  there  had  at  one 
time  been  a  fence  between  us.  Even  now  it  is  a 
good  enough  fence  in  front;  but  it  gradually  de- 
generated until,  at  the  bottom  of  the  yards,  it  was 
a  mere  fortuitous  concourse  of  rotten  and  smashed 
palings  through  which  multitudinous  armies  of  fowls 
came  at  unseasonable  hours  and  against  which  all 
Bill's  lady-like  indignation  was  vented  in  vain.  As 
we  watched  behind  the  curtains  a  Dorking  stepped 
through  and  began  to  prospect  among  the  sumach 
and  stramonium  that  Bill  had  encouraged  along  our 
frontiers,  under  an  illusion  that  plants  labelled 
"poisonous"  in  her  American  gardening  book  would 
decimate  the  fowls. 

"I  wish  they  wouldn't,"  said  Bill  sadly,  and 
added,  "It's  rotten,  you  know.  I  shall  speak  to 
them  about  it  one  of  these  days." 

For  myself,  though  trained  habit  enabled  me  to 
make  note  of  the  Dorking,  my  whole  conscious  at- 
tention was  riveted  upon  the  little  group  round  the 
scaldino  on  the  back  porch.  Mrs.  Carville  was,  as  I 
have  said,  stooping  over  the  brazier.  Her  move- 
ments were  being  watched  not  only  by  ourselves, 
but  by  her  two  children.  Fortunately,  they  were 
beyond  her,  their  legs  planted  far  apart,  their  hands 
behind  them,  so  that  I  could  see  without  stint  the 
magnificent  pose  of  the  woman's  body.  Her  arms 
hovered  over  the  vessel,  the  left  resting  at  times 
upon  it,  the  other  selecting  pieces  of  fuel  from 
a  box  at  her  side.  The  line  of  her  back  from  hip 
to  shoulder  seemed  incredibly  straight  and  long. 
The  cold  wind  that  was  blowing  gustily  and  which 


ALIENS  7 

was  the  ostensible  cause  of  her  preparations,  pressed 
her  thin  dress  to  her  form  and  showed  with  sportive 
candour  the  fine  modelhng  of  bosom  and  Hmbs. 
Chiefly,  however,  I  was  attracted  by  the  superb 
disdain  in  the  poise  of  the  head.  It  was  a  dark 
head,  coiled  heavily  with  black  hair  and  set  back 
in  the  hollow  of  the  shoulders.  Her  face  may  be 
called  dark  too,  the  black  eye-brows  and  olive  skin 
being  unrelieved  by  colour  in  the  cheeks.  Her 
whole  expression  was,  you  might  say,  forbidding, 
and  I  was  not  surprised  when  one  of  the  boys  re- 
ceived a  push  as  he  bent  his  head  over  the  brazier. 
There  was  such  an  electric  quickness  in  the  gesture, 
such  a  dispassionate  resumption  of  her  fonner  pose, 
that  one  involuntarily  conceded  to  her  a  fierce  and 
peremptory  disposition.  One  felt  that  such  a 
woman  would  listen  with  some  impatience  to  com- 
plaints about  predatory  fowls,  that  she  would  stand 
no  nonsense  from  her  children  either,  that   .    .    . 

The  same  thought  flashed  through  our  minds 
simultaneously,  and  in  strict  accordance  with  our 
differing  temperaments  Bill  voiced  it. 

"I  wonder  if  they  don't  get  on,"  she  said. 

"I  wonder,"  I  assented. 

The  brazier  full,  Mrs.  Carville  rose,  the  handle  in 
her  hand.  Pointing  to  the  box,  she  spoke  to  her 
children,  who  hastily  removed  it  to  a  shed  at  the 
bottom  of  the  yard.  She  turned  to  enter  the  house, 
her  large  black  eyes  swept  our  windows  in  a  swift 
comprehensive  glance  of  suspicion  and  then  she 
vanished. 

I  retired  hastily  to  my  desk,  acutely  conscious 


8  ALIENS 

that  we  had  been,  well,  that  we  had  been  impolite! 
Bill  went  away  without  speaking,  and  for  a  couple 
of  hours  I  was  absorbed  in  my  work.  Growing 
weary  of  the  thing,  I  took  up  my  pipe  and  went 
upstairs  to  the  studio. 

"Just  in  time  for  tea,"  said  Bill.  "Have  a 
cookie?" 

The  studio  was  in  some  disorder,  and  the  atmos- 
phere was  heavy  with  the  odour  of  printer's  ink. 
The  etching  press  had  been  dragged  out  from  the 
wall,  trays  of  water,  bottles  of  benzine,  rags  of 
muslin,  rolls  of  paper,  palettes  of  ink,  copper  plates 
and  all  the  materiel  of  etching  were  lying  in  con- 
siderable confusion  about  the  room,  and  Mac 
himself,  draped  in  a  blue  cotton  overall,  stood  in 
negligent  attitude  against  an  easel,  drinking  a  cup 
of  tea.  I  had  caught  the  phrase,  "They're  a  funny 
lot,"  and  I  divined  that  Bill's  hasty  offer  of  cookies 
was  a  mere  ruse  to  put  me  off  the  track  of  a  possibly 
interesting  conversation. 

"Finished?"  asked  Mac,  passing  me  a  cup  of  tea. 

"Not  yet,"  I  replied.  "Another  thousand  words 
will  do  it,  though." 

Mac,  in  accordance  with  a  vow  made  in  all  sin- 
cerity, and  approved  by  us,  set  apart  one  day  a 
week  for  etching,  just  as  I  was  supposed  to  conse- 
crate some  part  of  my  time  to  literature.  At  first 
we  were  to  work  together,  select  themes,  write  them 
up  and  illustrate  them  conjointly.  This,  we  argued, 
could  not  fail  to  condense  into  fame  and  even 
wealth.  Our  friend  Hooker  had  done  this,  and  he 
had  climbed  to  a  one-man  show  in  Fifth  Avenue. 


ALIENS  9 

But  by  some  fatality,  whenever  Mac  took  a  day 
off  for  high  art,  on  that  day  did  I  invariably  feel 
sordidly  industrious.  I  might  idle  for  a  week, 
smoking  too  much  and  getting  in  Bill's  way  as 
she  busied  herself  with  housework,  but  as  soon  as 
the  etching-press  scraped  across  the  studio-floor,  or 
Mac  came  down  with  camera  and  satchel  and 
dressed  for  a  tramp,  I  became  the  victim  of  a 
mania  for  work,  and  stuck  childishly  to  my  desk. 
Personally  I  did  not  believe  in  Hooker's  story  at  all. 
Hooker's  mythical  librettist  never  materialized.  I 
was  always  on  the  look-out  for  a  secondhand  book 
containing  Hooker's  letterpress.  It  suited  the 
others  to  believe  in  him,  but  even  a  writer  of  adver- 
tising booklets  and  "appreciations"  has  a  certain 
literary  instinct  that  cannot  be  deceived.  And  so 
I  felt,  as  I  have  said,  sordidly  industrious  and  in- 
clined to  look  disparagingly  upon  a  man  who  was 
frittering  away  his  time  with  absurd  scratchings 
upon  copper  and  whose  hands  were  just  then  in  a 
most  questionable  condition. 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  help  me,"  he 
sneered  over  his  cup. 

"The  fit  was  on  me,"  I  explained,  and  my  eye 
roved  round  the  studio.  I  caught  sight  of  a  piece 
of  paper  on  a  chair.  Mac  made  a  movement  to 
pick  it  up,  but  he  was  hampered  by  the  cup  and 
saucer,  and  I  secured  it. 

"Ah — h!"  I  remarked,  and  they  two  regarded 
each  other  sheepishly.  "Very  good  indeed,  old 
man!" 

And    it    was    very    good.      With    the    slap-dasb 


10  ALIENS 

economy  of  effort  which  he  had  learned  of  Van 
Roon,  when  that  ill-fated  genius  was  in  Chelsea, 
Mac  had  caught  the  salient  curves  and  angles  of 
Mrs.  Carville  as  she  stooped  over  her  scaldino,  had 
caught  to  a  surprising  degree  the  sombre  expression 
of  her  face  and  the  tigerish  energy  of  her  crouched 
body.  I  studied  it  with  great  pleasure  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  it  recurred  to  me  that  he  had  not 
been  with  us  at  the  window.  I  say  recurred,  though 
I  had  known  it  all  along,  and  my  ejaculation,  for 
that  matter,  was  but  a  sign  of  triumph  over  catch- 
ing him  at  the  same  game  of  peeping-Tom  that  we 
had  been  playing  in  the  room  below.  Yet  so  quickly 
and  over-lappingly  do  our  minds  work  that  at  the 
same  moment  I  had  no  less  than  three  blurred 
emotions.  I  was  pleased  to  find  my  friend  was 
guilty,  I  was  pleased  with  the  sketch,  yet  puzzled 
to  know  how  he  had  come  to  make  it.  Suddenly  I 
saw  light. 

"You  were  on  the  stairs?"  I  said,  and  pointed 
with  the  paper  over  my  shoulder.    He  nodded. 

"Happened  to  look  out,"  he  remarked,  setting  his 
cup  down. 

It  is  my  custom  to  risk  a  good  deal  sometimes  by 
uttering  thoughts  which  my  friends  are  free  to 
disown.  They  may  not  be  quite  honest  in  this,  but 
none  the  less,  according  to  the  social  contract,  they 
are  free  to  disown.  So,  in  this  case,  when  I  said, 
"I  wonder  if  they  are  really  married,"  both  of 
these  generous  souls  repudiated  the  suggestion  at 
once. 

"But  you  must  admit  we  have  some  reason  for 


ALIENS  11 

suspicion,'*  I  went  on,  looking  into  my  cup.     "Of 
course,  I  am  not  speaking  now  as  a  gentleman " 

"No,"  said  Bill,  maliciously.    I  continued. 

" but  as  an  investigator  into  the  causes  of 


psychological  phenomena.  Placing  them  upon  the 
dissecting-table,  so  to  speak,  and  probing  with  the 
forceps  of  observation  and  the  needle  of  wit " 

"Rubbish!"  snorted  the  etcher  rudely,  turning  to 
his  plates. 

"But,  my  dear  chap!"  I  urged,  "let  me  explain. 
I  happened  to  be  reading  Balzac  last  night,  that  is 
all.  You  know  how  stimulating  he  is,  and  how 
readily  one  falls  in  with  his  plans  for  forming  a 
complete  Science  of  Applied  Biology  of  the  human 
race.  Put  it  another  way  if  you  like.  What  are 
the  tsicts?  Item:  A  grass  widow,  obviously  foreign, 
presumably  .Italian.  Item:  Two  children  indis- 
putably American,  one  fair,  the  other  dark.  Item: 
A  scaldino.  Item:  Male  clothing  on  the  line.  Item: 
A  reserved  attitude  toward  her  intelligent  and  cul- 
tivated neighbours.  Item:  Ignorance  of  the  well- 
known  fact  that  the  Indian  Summer  is  now  setting 

in.     Item:  shall  I  go  on?     Have  we  not  here 

evidence  suflficiently  discrepant  to  warrant  a  cer- 
tain conjecture?  " 

"Male  clothing,  you  said?"  remarked  Bill,  a 
certain  respect  for  my  perspicacity  in  her  manner; 
"When?" 

'  "The  last  time  I  came  home  with  the  milk," 
I  replied.  "The  moon  was  shining  with  some 
brilliance.  As  I  looked  out  of  my  window  before 
getting  into  bed  I  saw  some  one  moving  over  there. 


12  ALIENS 

A  further  scrutiny  revealed  to  me  a  number  of 
undeniable  suits  of  pyjamas  which  were  being  taken 
hurriedly  from  the  line." 

"You  didn't  say  anything  about  it  before?" 

"  No,  because  I  attached  no  significance  to  the  fact 
before.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  was  under  the  im- 
pression that  they  were  doing  laundry  work  and  that, 
to  conceal  the  fact  more  effectively,  they  were  doing 
the  male  garments  at  night.  We  had  not  then  heard 
the  item  I  was  waiting  permission  to  enumerate." 

"Is  it  one  we  know  or  one  you're  going  to  spring 
on  us.'^"  inquired  the  lady,  reaching  out  for  my  cup. 

"You  may  know  it,"  I  replied.  Mac  was  bending 
over  his  plate,  rubbing  the  ink  in  with  deft  fingers, 
and  I  saw  his  lowered  glance  flutter  in  my  direction 
for  a  moment. 

"You  mean  Mac  knows  and  you  don't  feel  sure 
whether  he's  told  me,"  interpreted  Bill,  shaking  the 
tea-pot.     I  laughed. 

"Into  that  we  will  not  go,"  I  said.  "Suffice  it 
that  if  he  knows  it  was  because  I  told  him." 

"I  knew  it  was  something  you  were  ashamed  of,'* 
she  exclaimed,  triumphantly.    "Go  on:  out  with  it!" 

"How  can  I  be  ashamed  of  it  since  I  am  about 
to  tell  you?"  I  demanded,  incautiously. 

"Why,  because  your  love  of  scandal  is  so  tre- 
mendous that  you  sacrifice  even  yourself  to  it!"  she 
answered. 

"Thank  you,"  I  said.  "Here  is  my  item:  They 
correspond." 

^^Thafs  nothing  to  go  on!"  cried  the  lady.  I 
dared   no   more   than   smile.     Mac  grinned   as   he 


ALIENS  13 

lifted  the  plate  from  the  gas  stove  and,  giving  it  a 
final  polish,  carried  it  to  the  press.  "Oh,  well!" 
went  on  Bill,  irrelevantly,  "let  us  all  be  honest  and 
say  we're  interested.  If  he  exists,  he  will  come 
along  some  time." 

The  press  creaked  and  the  spokes  turned.  We 
both  paused  involuntarily  as  Mac  bent  over  and 
lifted  the  blankets.  This  is  always  a  moment  of 
anxiety.  It  was  a  theory  among  us  that  when 
Samuel  Johnson  wrote  "The  Vanity  of  Human 
Wishes"  he  had  been  pulling  proofs  from  copper. 
Bill  had  confessed  to  me  that  she  could  not  help 
holding  her  breath,  sometimes.  Her  husband 
turned  upon  us  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction. 

"If  we're  all  going  to  be  honest,"  he  remarked, 
"we  all  ought  to  know  as  much  as  each  other,  eh? 
Well  then,  tell  us  about  the  correspondence,  old 
man.    What  do  you  know?" 

"Miss  Fraenkel  .  .  . "  I  began,  and  Bill  breathed, 
"I  knew  it!" 

"In  the  course  of  a  casual  conversation,"  I  con- 
tinued, "Miss  Fraenkel  mentioned  to  me  the  fact 
that  letters  pass  between  them.  In  a  way,  I  sup- 
pose, she  shouldn't  do  it.  A  postmistress  is  in  a 
delicate  position.  And  yet  why  not?  One  may  say 
without  prejudice  that  a  certain  man  writes  to  his 
wife.  We  might  even  have  assumed  it,  since  we 
see  the  postman  deliver  letters  with  our  own  eyes. 
Miss  Fraenkel,  however,  overstepped  the  bounds  of 
prudence  when  she  implied  something  wrong.  Her 
exact  words,  as  far  as  I  can  remember,  were,  *It  is 
funny  he  writes  from  New  York.'" 


14  ALIENS 

"Does  he?"  said  Bill. 

"So  Miss  Fraenkel  says.  So  you  see,  your  .  .  . 
our  unspoken  thoughts  were  justified,  to  say  the 
least.  We  may  recast  Item  one  and  say,  A  grass 
widow,  undoubtedly  Italian,  with  a  husband  in 
New  York,  twenty  miles  away." 

"Well,  in  that  case  it's  no  business  of  ours,"  said 
Mac,  as  he  spread  the  heavy  viscid  ink  upon  a  new 
plate.  "They  may  have  their  troubles,  but  it's 
pretty  clear  they  don't  need  our  sympathy,  do 
they?" 

"No,"  assented  Bill. 

"But  what  becomes  of  our  inquiry?"  I  protested. 
"My  dear  Mac,  this  does  credit  to  your  kind  heart, 
but  since  we  are  agreed  to  be  honest,  let  us  have  the 
fruits  of  our  honesty.  Consider  that  anyhow  we 
are  doing  them  no  harm.  You  are  too  gentle.  In- 
deed, I  think  that  we  have  been  stand-offish.  Why 
should  not  Bill  call  and — er — leave  a  card?" 

"Me!  Call  on  an  Italian?"  The  voice  was  al- 
most shrill. 

"A  neighbourly  act,"  I  remarked.  "And  we  may 
find  out  something." 

"We're  a  pretty  lot,  us  and  our  honesty,"  put  in 
Mac,  in  some  disgust,  rubbing  his  nose  with  the 
back  of  his  wrist. 

"My  dear  friends,"  I  said,  "I  give  you  my  word 
of  honour  that  is  how  modern  novels  are  made.  If 
you  put  an  end  to  espionage  the  book  market  would 
be  given  over  entirely  to  such  works  as  'The  Auto- 
mobile and  How  to  Drive  It'  and  *Jane  Austen  and 
Her  Circle.'" 


ALIENS  15 

"Then  it's  a  very  shady  trade,  mean  and  dis- 
honourable," said  Mae. 

"We  agreed  upon  that,  you  remember,  when  my 
novel  was  refused  publication,"  I  said,  laughing. 

"Yes,"  said  Bill.  "But  when  they  accepted  it, 
you  got  very  stuck-up  and  refused  to  write  any 
advertisements  for  a  fortnight  and  said  that  who- 
ever had  written  a  good  book  was  one  of  a  noble 
company,  and  a  lot  more  of  it.  It  depends  on  the 
point  of  view." 

"Of  course  it  does,  ma  mie.  In  this  case,  the 
honest  point  of  view  is  the  one  we  must  take.  We 
must  forget  for  a  moment  that  we  are  English  lady 
and  gentlemen " 

"Never!"  said  Bill,  firmly,  lighting  a  cigarette. 

" and  remember  that  we  are  students  of  life. 

What  would  Balzac  or  Flaubert  have  known  of  life 
if  they  had  been  merely  gentlemen.''  Nothing! 
What  does  a  gentleman  know?  Nothing.  What 
does  he  do  in  the  world?  Nothing.  Of  what  use  is 
he  beyond  his  interest  as  a  vestige  of  a  defunct 
feudalism?  This  is  the  Twentieth  Century,  in  the 
United  States  of  America,  not  the " 

"Oh  stop,  stop!"  she  said,  laughing.  "Go  down 
and  get  that  thousand  words  finished." 

I  went. 


CHAPTER  II 
His  Children 

IT  was  a  week  later,  and  we  were" sitting  on  the 
verandah  looking  out  across  Essex  County  to- 
wards Manhattan.  To  us,  who  some  five  years 
before  had  been  shaken  from  our  homestead  in 
San  Francisco  and  hurried  penniless  and  almost  naked 
across  the  continent,  our  location  here  in  the  Garden 
State,  looking  eastward  towards  the  Western  Ocean 
and  our  native  isle,  had  always  appeared  as  "almost 
home."  We  endeavoured  to  impress  this  upon  our 
friends  in  England,  explaining  that  "we  could  be 
home  in  four  or  five  days  easily";  and  what  were 
four  or  five  days?  True,  we  have  never  gone  so  far 
as  to  book  our  passage;  but  there  is  undoubted  com- 
fort in  the  fact  that  in  a  week  at  the  outside,  we 
could  walk  down  Piccadilly.  Out  on  the  Pacific 
Slope  we  were,  both  physically  and  spiritually,  a 
world  away. 

It  pleased  us,  too,  to  detect  in  the  configuration 
of  the  district  a  certain  identity  with  our  own 
county  of  Essex,  in  England,  where  a  cousin  of  Bill's 
had  a  cottage,  and  where,  some  day,  we  were  to 
have  a  cottage  too.  Our  home  is  called  Wigboro* 
House,  after  the  cousin's,  and  we  have  settled  it 
that,  just  as  you  catch  a  glimpse  of  grey  sea  across 
Mersea  Island  from  Wigborough,  so  we  may  catch 
the  glint  and  glare  of  the  lights  of  Manhattan,  and, 
on  stormy  nights,  feel  on  our  lips  the  sharpness  of 

16 


ALIENS  17 

the  salt  wind  that  blows  across  Staten  Island  from 
the  Atlantic.  It  is  an  innocent  conceit,  and  our  only 
critic  so  far  had  been  Miss  Fraenkel,  who  had  ob- 
jected to  the  name,  and  advocated  with  American 
succinctness  the  advantage  of  a  number.  As  Bill 
had  remarked  mournfully,  "It  wouldn't  be  so  bad 
if  it  was  number  three  or  four,  but  Five  hundred 
and  Eighty-two  Van  Diemen's  Avenue  is  horrible!" 
We  had  given  in  to  Miss  Fraenkel  of  course,  save 
that  none  of  us  had  the  courage  to  disillusion  Bill's 
cousin.  We  still  received  from  him  letters  ad- 
dressed in  his  sprawling  painter's  hand  **Wighom 
House,  Netley  Heights,  N.  J.,  U.  S.  A.,"  a  mail  or  so 
late.  We  never  told  him  of  Van  Diemen's  Avenue, 
nor  for  that  matter  had  we  mentioned  our  neigh- 
bours. Curiously  enough,  it  was  he,  that  painter 
cousin  of  Bill's,  thousands  of  miles  away  in  that 
other  Essex,  who  told  us  something  that  we  were 
only  too  quick  to  appreciate,  about  our  neighbours. 

We  were  talking  of  him,  I  remember,  that  after- 
noon as  we  sat  on  the  stoop.  Bill  saying  he  would 
be  writing  soon,  and  Mac  raising  the  vexed  question 
of  the  Fourth  Chair.  You  see,  we  have  four  rocking- 
chairs  on  our  verandah,  though  there  are  but  three 
of  us,  and  Bill  usually  claims  the  hammock.  It 
was  no  answer,  I  found,  to  suggest  future  friends 
as  occupants  for  this  chair.  It  grew  to  be  a  legend 
that  some  day  I  should  bring  home  a  bride  and  she 
should  have  it.  I  submitted  to  this  badinage  and 
even  hinted  that  at  first  we  should  need  but  one 
chair.  ...  I  had  heard  .  .  .  nay  seen,  such  things 
in  San  Francisco,  before  the  earthquake.     In  the 


18  ALIENS 

meantime  I  had  vamped  up  a  very  pretty  story  of 
the  painter-cousin  getting  a  commission  to  paint  a 
prima-dojina  in  New  York  and  coming  over  to 
visit  us  in  great  state.  He  might  be  induced  to  sit 
awhile  in  the  vacant  chair.  It  seemed  more  prob- 
able than  Bill's  legend,  for  I  knew  Miss  F , 

anybody  I  married,  say,  would  want  the  hammock. 
There  was  one  drawback  to  my  dream,  and  that 
was  the  humiliation  of  revealing  to  him  Van  Die- 
men's  Avenue.  He  is  a  university  man,  and  from 
his  letters  and  Bill's  description  I  should  say  he 
has  a  rather  embarrassing  laugh  when  he  finds  a 
person  out  in  a  deception  like  that.  But  so  far  he 
had  not  yet  received  a  commission  to  paint  a  prima- 
donna  in  New  York,  and  he  still  pictures  our  Wig- 
boro'  house  standing  alone  on  Netley  Heights, 
looking  out  across  rolling  country  to  the  sea.  Of 
course  the  photos  that  we  send  do  not  show  any 
other  houses  near,  and  the  verandalis  make  the 
place  look  bigger  than  it  really  is.  He  must  be 
tremendously  impressed,  too,  by  Bill's  courageous 
declaration  (in  inverted  commas)  that  at  the  back 
the  land  is  ours  "as  far  as  the  eye  can  see."  It  is 
true,  too,  though  the  eye  cannot  see  very  far.  There 
is  a  "dip,"  you  know,  common  enough  to  Triassic 
regions;  and  as  you  stand  at  the  back  door  and 
look  westward  the  sky  comes  down  and  touches  our 
cabbages,  fifty  yards  away.      It  does,  really! 

Well,  we  were  talking  of  him  and  incidentally  of 
the  Fourth  Chair,  when  the  children  came  round 
the  corner  of  the  house  and,  finding  us  there,  stood 
looking  at  us. 


ALIENS  19 

Thdt  is  all;  just  stood  staring  at  us,  with  feet 
planted  firmly  on  the  gravel,  hands  in  pockets  and 
an  expression  of  unwinking  candour  in  their  young 
eyes.  It  was  absurd,  of  course,  that  we  three 
grown-ups  should  have  been  so  embarrassed  by  a 
couple  of  urchins,  but  we  were.  The  cool  nerve  of 
it,  the  unimaginable  audacity  of  it,  took  our  breath 
away.  It  was  almost  as  though  they  were  saying, 
"Well,  and  what  are  you  doing  here,  hey?"  There 
was  something  almost  indelicate  in  their  merciless 
scrutiny.    We  quailed. 

There  was,  moreover,  a  deeper  reason  for  "Dur 
disquietude.  We  realized,  afterward,  that  those 
children,  one  dark  and  one  fair,  had  been  quite 
unconscious  of  our  existence  before.  Numberless 
times  they  had  passed  us,  even  crossing  our  land 
on  a  short  cut  to  the  forest  road,  but  without  recog- 
nition. And  though,  in  a  pause  between  two  ab- 
sorbing interests,  in  a  moment  of  disengagement 
from  the  more  important  matters  of  American  child- 
hood, they  now  deigned  to  favour  us  with  their  frank 
attention,  it  was  rather  disparagement  than  curi- 
osity they  exhibited.  We  now  know  the  feelings  of 
a  Living  Wonder  in  a  show. 

"Hello,"  remarked  the  elder,  the  dark  one,  dis- 
passionately, and  we  almost  jumped.  The  other 
child  fixed  his  eye  on  my  shppers,  which  were  of 
carpet  and  roomy.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  time 
had  come  to  tell  them  of  their  lack  of  good  manners. 

"Hello,  little  boy,"  I  replied.  I  decided  to  ap- 
proach the  subject  of  manners  circuitously. 

"You  ain't  so  very  big  yerself,"  said  the  elder 


20  ALIENS 

boy,  quite  without  emotion  and  merely  as  a  stated 
fact.  I  admit  freely  that  this,  in  the  jargon  of  the 
streets,  was  "one  on  me."  My  general  diminutive- 
ness  of  person  has  always  been  more  than  com- 
pensated, I  think,  by  a  corresponding  magnitude  of 
mind;  but  one  is  none  the  less  sensitive  to  wayside 
ribaldry.  I  have  never  been  able  to  quench  a 
certain  satisfaction  in  the  fact  that  the  children 
who  mocked  the  prophet  were  devoured  by  bears. 
An  occasional  example  is  certainly  wholesome,  if 
only  to  bring  young  people  to  their  senses. 

"You  mustn't  speak  like  that,"  I  said,  gently. 
"What  is  your  name?" 

"What  yo'  want  to  know  for?"  came  the  answer, 
and  he  joined  his  brother  in  examining  my  slippers. 
The  baffling  thing  was  that  there  was  really  noth- 
ing intentionally  rude  about  these  two  rather  pretty 
little  fellows.  They  were  merely  exhibiting,  in  a 
somewhat  disconcerting  fashion,  it  is  true,  the  in- 
fluence of  republican  freedom  upon  natures  un- 
warped  by  feudal  traditions  of  courtesy  and  noblesse 
oblige.  It  was  baffling,  as  I  say,  but  encouraging  for 
all  that.  I  felt  that  if  the  others  could  restrain  their 
indignation  and  I  could  school  myself  to  pursue  the 
catechism,  I  should  eventually  discover  some  avenue 
of  inquiry  that  might  lead  to  fresh  knowledge  of  the 
mSnage  next  door.    I  tried  again. 

"Well,  you  see,"  I  explained,  "we  would  like  to 
get  acquainted  with  you.  You  tell  us  your  names 
and  we'll  tell  you  ours.    Eh?" 

"I  know  your  name,  I  do,"  he  said,  glancing  at 
my  face  for  a  moment.    I  put  out  my  hand  to  calm 


ALIENS  21 

Bill's  restlessness.  It  appeared  afterwards  that  she 
"thought  she  was  going  to  choke." 

"Gee!  you  do?  Well  then,  you  can  tell  me  yours," 
I  went  on. 

"Giuseppe  Mazzini  Carville,"  he  returned,  and 
before  we  fully  realized  the  stupendous  possibilities 
which  this  implied  the  younger  child  raised  his  eyes 
to  our  faces. 

"Want  to  know  my  name  too?"  he  queried,  not 
a  quiver  of  an  eyelid  to  show  any  self-conscious- 
ness. 

"Of  course,"  I  said;  "what  is  it?"  We  waited  an 
instant,  breathlessly. 

"Benvenuto  Cellini  Carville,"  he  pronounced 
carefully,  and  added  as  an  afterthought,  "I'm  Ben; 
he's  Beppo." 

"Fancy  giving  a  child  a  name  like  that!"  mut- 
tered Bill,  compassionately.  "I  call  it  a  shame!" 
And  she  leaned  over  towards  the  two  children.  "Do 
you  know  my  name  then?"  she  asked. 

The  clear,  steady  eyes  rested  for  a  moment  upon 
her  face,  and  a  slight  smile  curved  the  lips  of  the 
elder  as  he  answered. 

"Ma  calls  you  the  woman  with  two  husbands," 
he  remarked. 

"Oh!"  said  Bill,  and  fell  back  into  the  hammock. 

"Say,  Kiddo,"  said  Mac,  reaching  out  a  long  arm 
and  capturing  them,  "what  do  they  teach  you  down 
in  that  old  school  anyway,  eh?" 

They  squirmed. 

"It  is  useless  to  try  and  force  anything  out  of 
them,"  I  warned.    "Remember, the  school-teacher  is 


22  ALIENS 

forbidden   by   law   even   to   touch   them."     They 
slipped  away  from  his  knee,  and  stood  as  before. 
,    "Listen,"  I  continued.    "Got  a  father,  Beppo?" 

He  surveyed  me  with  some  slight  astonishment. 

"  Sure,"  he  replied.  "  Of  course  I  got  a  father,  silly." 

"Well,  where  is  he?" 

They  looked  at  each  other,  their  arms  folded 
behind  them,  their  toes  digging  the  gravel. 

"At  sea,"  said  Beppo,  and  Mac  slapped  his  knee. 

"Eh?"  I  said,  blankly,  for  I  had  not  caught  the 
phrase. 

"We  are  a  lot  of  duffers!"  muttered  Mac.  "The 
man  is  a  sailor  and  he's  at  sea." 

"Oh!"  I  said,  and  for  a  moment  I  felt  downcast 
at  the  tame  ending  of  our  investigation.  "When  is 
he  coming  home,  Beppo?" 

"I  dunno,"  he  answered,  indifferently.  "What 
do  you  want  to  know  f or?  " 

Here  was  a  quandary.  I  was  caught  fairly  and 
squarely  prying  into  another  person's  business.  I 
don't  know  why,  but  these  two  little  chaps,  with 
their  clean-cut  unembarrassed  features,  their  relent- 
less stare  and  their  matter-of-fact  outlook  upon  life, 
seenied  to  have  in  a  supreme  degree  the  faculty  of 
inspiring  and  snubbing  curiosity.  I  think  the 
others,  since  I  had  borne  the  brunt  of  the  ordeal, 
sympathized  with  me,  for  they  were  silent.  I 
stared  at  our  visitors  in  some  perplexity;  and  then 
in  the  most  exasperating  manner  they  turned  away 
and  ran  across  our  ground  to  a  huge  hollow  stump 
near  the  forest  path  and  began  to  play. 

"Pretty   tough,    eh?"    murmured    Mac,    rocking 


ALIENS  23 

himself.  I  began  to  wonder  whether  I  ought  to 
have  been  more  indignant  about  that  reflection 
upon  my  height.  Bill  looked  up  and  twisted  round 
so  that  she  could  see  what  they  were  doing. 

"What  are  they  playing.'^"  she  whispered.  No 
one  answered.  I  was  thinking.  Sailor — sixty  dol- 
lars a  month  rent — Italian  wife — letters  from  New 
York. 

"I  will  see,*'  I  said,  and  stepping  down  I  walked 
across  to  the  stump. 

I  was  fully  resolved  to  sift  the  matter  as  far  as 
I  could  to  the  bottom.  I  was  aware  of  the  dis- 
advantage of  being  a  small  man,  for  I  saw  that  I 
should  be  compelled  to  climb  up  to  look  into  the 
stump.  But  with  small  stature  is  often  joined  a 
certain  tenacious,  terrier-like  fortitude.  I  advanced 
with  firmness. 

Ben  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Beppo,  a  stick  on 
his  shoulder,  stood  in  a  statuesque  pose  in  front  of 
the  stump. 

"G'way!"  he  hissed,  as  I  came  up. 

"What's  the  game?"  I  whispered. 

"Indians.  I'm  on  guard.  G'way!"  he  whis- 
pered back. 

"Is  this  the  fort?"    I  searched  for  a  foothold. 

"Yep.  This  is  the  middle- watch.  What'd  you 
butt  in  for?" 

I  scrambled  up  and  looked.  Just  below  me, 
lying  on  a  soft  bed  of  mouldering  tinder  wood  and 
leaves,  was  Benvenuto  Celhni  Carville,  simulating 
profound  slumber.  As  I  clung  there,  a  somewhat 
undignified  figure,  he  opened  one  eye. 


24  ALIENS 

"Let  me  play  too?"  I  pleaded. 

"Can  you  follow  a  trail?"  said  Beppo's  voice  at 
my  side. 

"Sure." 

"Well,  you  go  down  there,"  he  pointed  to  BilFs 
cabbage  patch,  "and  be  a  hostile,  see?" 

I  saw.  As  I  slipped  down  and  hastened  away 
as  directed  (avoiding  the  cabbages),  it  seemed  to 
me  absurdly  paradoxical  that  the  only  way  to  be 
friendly  with  these  precocious  beings  was  to  be  a 
"hostile."  I  looked  round.  Beppo  stood  at  rigid 
attention,  and  at  the  studio  back  window  I  saw 
two  grinning  heads  surveying  my  performance.  I 
was  not  at  all  clear  in  my  mind  how  a  hostile  should 
act;  it  was  thirty  years  since  I  had  read  "Deer- 
slayer."  Should  I  drop  on  my  knees  and  crawl 
through  the  long  grass,  snooping  round  the  bean- 
poles and  taking  the  devoted  block-house  in  flank? 
I  swallowed  my  stiff-necked  English  pride  and  began 
to  crawl.  Then  I  saw  a  better  plan.  I  slipped 
through  the  sparse  hue  of  dwarf  oaks  smothered 
with  crimson  poison-ivy  that  bordered  the  forest 
path  and  crept  as  silently  as  I  could  towards  the 
street  until  I  was  abreast  of  the  stump.  As  I 
paused  Beppo  was  making  his  round  of  the  fort  and 
espied  me.  Instantly  crying  "Hostiles!"  he  pre- 
sented his  stick,  banged,  reloaded,  banged  again, 
reloaded  and  banged  yet  again.  I  took  up  a  stick 
and  presented  it — bang!  With  amazing  verisimili- 
tude Beppo  rolled  over — shot  through  the  heart. 
Really,  for  a  moment  I  had  a  mad  apprehension 
that  in  some  occult  way,  some  freak  of  hypnotic 


ALIENS  25 

suggestion,  I  had  actually  wrought  the  child  harm. 
I  stood  there  breathlessly  triumphant  and  wonder- 
ing whether  it  was  now  my  business  to  rush  in  and 
scalp  the  defenceless  prisoners.  I  became  aware  of  a 
head  and  a  stick  above  the  stump. 

"Bang!"  said  the  garrison.  Obviously  I  was  shot. 
I  fell,  desperately  wounded,  and  endeavoured  to  drag 
myself  away  into  the  forest  of  dwarf  oaks,  when  the 
garrison  hailed  me. 

"Surrender!"  he  called,  presenting  his  piece.  I 
put  up  my  hands.    He  climbed  down  nimbly. 

"Now  you  help  me  bring  in  the  dead  and 
wounded,"  he  ordered,  and  together  we,  the  vic- 
torious garrison,  dragged  the  slain  warrior  into  the 
shadow  of  the  stump.  All  at  once  he  became  alive, 
jumped  up  and  danced  gleefully. 

"Say,  that's  bully!"  he  chanted.  "You  play 
some  Indian!" 

I  looked  down  modestly  and  blushed  I  fear,  for 
I  knew  that  the  grinning  heads  were  still  at  the 
studio  window. 

"Well,"  I  said,  picking  the  thistle  burrs  off  my 
trousers,  "let  us  sit  down  for  a  spell,  shall  we?" 
To  my  surprise,  they  consented.  We  went  round  to 
the  stoop  and  I  took  a  big  rocker.  For  a  moment 
they  stared,  as  though  considering  me  in  the  new 
light  of  a  perfect  "hostile." 

"Say,"  began  Beppo,  "what  you  doin'  in  there?" 
and  he  pointed  to  the  house. 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  for?"  I  retorted, 
humorously,  stroking  his  dark  head.  I  am  fond  of 
children  in  a  way,  especially  boys.     He  twisted  his 


26  ALIENS 

head  away,  but  without  ill-temper,  and  looked  at 
me  gravely. 

"Don't  you  work?"  he  demanded. 
'    "A  httle,  sometimes,"  I  rephed  earnestly,  feeling 
for  my  cigarettes. 

"WTiat  sort  of  work?"  said  Benvenuto,  standing 
in  front  of  me. 

"We  make  pictures,"  I  said,  evasively.  I  have 
a  silly  reluctance  to  talk  of  literature  as  work. 

"Huh!"  they  remarked,  and  surveyed  me  afresh. 

"What  does  your  father  work  at?"  I  asked, 
cautiously. 

"He's  at  sea,"  said  Beppo. 

And  that  was  all  they  knew.  I  tried  the  ques- 
tion in  many  ways,  but  they  had  no  other  answer. 
Evidently  they  had  grown  up  with  that  phrase  in 
their  ears,  "at  sea,"  and  were  satisfied. 

"Don't  you  want  to  see  him?"  I  suggested.  They 
"supposed  so."    I  left  that  subject. 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"Seven,"  said  Beppo.    "Ben's  six." 

"You  are  very  precocious,"  I  remarked,  to  my- 
self chiefly. 

"How?" 

"Precocious,"  I  repeated,  rising  to  meet  the  post- 
man. He  handed  me  several  business  letters  and 
one  for  Bill  with  an  English  stamp,  a  fat  package. 

"Who's  that  from?"  asked  Beppo,  and  I  was 
pulling  his  ear  gently  as  Bill  came  out  with  a  rush. 
The  postman  went  along  to  the  next  house. 

At  this  moment  my  perceptions  became  blurred. 
I  remember  handing  the  letters  to  Bill  and  Mac.    I 


ALIENS  27 

remember  the  quick  scuffle  of  the  two  children  as 
they  hastened  toward  their  own  home.  All  this  is 
blurred.  What  stands  out  sharply  in  my  memory 
is  the  figure  of  Mrs.  Carville,  her  waist  pressed  hard 
against  the  fence,  a  long  envelope  in  her  hand, 
gesticulating  to  the  children  as  they  went  towards 
her.  I  saw  her  wave  them  peremptorily  indoors 
and  then  remain  by  the  fence,  regarding  me  with 
profound  distrust.  I  made  a  step  forward  to  speak, 
for  I  should  have  had  to  shout  at  that  distance,  but 
she  turned  and  swung  up  the  steps  of  her  porch  and 
slammed  the  door. 

"A  letter  from  Cecil,"  said  Bill 'as  I  took  my 
seat,  a  little  downcast  at  the  encounter.  Cecil  is  the 
painter-cousin,  at  Wigborough,  Essex,  England. 

"What  does  he  say.f*"  I  inquired. 

"Read  it  to  us,"  said  she,  and  handed  me  a  dozen 
sheets  of  tracing  paper  pinned  together. 

I  began  to  read. 


CHAPTER  III 
A  Letter  from  Wigborough 

"  ip^EAR  BILL,— At  last  I  find  myself  with  an 
I  ■  hour  or  so  to  spare,  so  here  goes !  How  are 
M.  M  you  all?  Well,  I  hope.  I  received  your 
little  present  on  the  anniversary.  Many 
thanks,  old  girl.  How  on  earth  do  you  remember  the 
date  of  everybody's  birthday.''  Honestly,  I  should 
have  let  it  pass  without  noticing  if  that  wee  book  had 
not  arrived  two  days  before.  So  you  see,  you  are 
of  some  use  in  the  worldjafter  all!  (This  is  a  joke.) 
How's  Mac  getting  on  with  the  etching?  Tell  him 
I've  taken  to  using  only  forty  per  cent,  nitric  acid  in 
distilled  water.  This  gives  very  good  results  for  all 
ordinary  work,  much  more  certain  than  the  nitrous, 
and  doesn't  make  such  a  stink.  There's  no  demand 
just  now  for  modern  work,  in  England  at  any  rate. 
I  can  hardly  believe  what  you  say  about  the  shows 
in  New  York.  London's  dead  for  etchers.  Every 
dealer  is  clamorous  for  copies  of  the  old  masters. 
The  rotten  thing  is  that  it  pays  better  than  doing 
original  work,  you  know.  I  have  a  job  on  now — 
twenty  plates  at  £50  a  plate,  simply  copying  Girtins 
and  Bartolozzis.  I  shall  do  four  plates  a  year.  I 
take  things  pretty  easily,  work  in  the  morning, 
potter  round  the  garden  in  the  afternoon,  tennis 
and  cycling  when  the  weather  permits.  This  has 
been  a  terrible  summer.  English  weather  gets 
worse,  I  believe.     We  had  rain  for  a  soUd  week  in 

28 


ALIENS  29 

July.  I  was  out  on  a  tramp  through  the  midlands 
and  got  caught  in  it,  which  reminds  me  of  a  most 
remarkable  chap  I  met  at  the  time.  I  really  must 
tell  you  about  him,  because  I  don't  remember  any- 
one who  has  so  impressed  his  personality  upon  me 
as  this  man  did. 

"It  was  this  way.  I  had  been  sketching  round 
about  Market  Overton,  and  getting  rather  sick  of 
the  incessant  rain,  so  I  packed  up  my  knapsack 
and  started  home.  It  really  is  much  more  jolly 
walking  in  the  rain  than  sitting  in  a  stuffy  inn 
parlour  waiting  for  it  to  stop.  Well,  at  Peterboro' 
I  heard  the  country  eastward  was  flooded  and 
farmers  ruined.  Of  course,  my  road  lay  through 
March  and  Ely  to  Newmarket  and  Colchester,  and 
I  wouldn't  believe  the  boys  who  called  to  me  that 
I'd  be  stopped;  but  sure  enough,  not  two  miles 
east  of  Peterboro'  the  road  slid  under  water  and 
people  were  punting  themselves  about  on  doors, 
and  cooking  their  grub  upstairs.  In  the  fields  the 
hay-cocks  and  corn-ricks  were  just  showing  them- 
selves above  the  water.  It  made  one's  heart  ache 
for  the  farmers.  Well,  I  turned  back,  of  course, 
and  took  the  London  road  to  Huntingdon,  which 
runs  high  all  the  way  to  Alconbury.  I  was  getting 
jolly  tired  and  wondering  if  I  should  find  a  decent 
bed  before  I  reached  Huntingdon,  when  I  came  to 
Saxon  Cross.  At  the  cross-roads  stands  a  fine  inn 
all  by  itself,  and  to  judge  by  the  names  and  ad- 
dresses in  the  visitors'  book,  it  is  nearly  as  well 
known  in  America  as  in  England.  The  Saxon  Cross 
Hotel  is  not  really  a  hotel  at  all,  being  a  hunting 


30  ALIENS 

inn.  But  it  is  very  comfortable,  with  brushes 
hung  all  round  the  walls  and  fine  old  engravings 
of  sporting  scenes  in  all  the  rooms. 

"At  first  I  only  went  into  the  bar-parlour  to  get 
a  drink.  It  was  rather  dark  in  there,  for  it  was 
very  near  sunset  and  the  windows  were  small,  and 
I  had  slipped  off  my  knapsack  and  dropped  into  a 
big  comfortable  chair  before  I  noticed  a  clean- 
shaven man  with  a  big  hooked  nose  and  gleaming 
eyes  seated  in  the  far  corner.  It  was  like  the  beak 
of  a  bird,  that  nose,  and  I  was  so  fascinated  by  it 
that  I  didn't  answer  the  landlord  when  he  came  in 
and  said  'Good  evening.'  The  man  opposite  said 
'Good  evening'  too,  so  I  suppose  that  it  must  have 
been  just  a  mistaken  idea  of  mine,  but  I  really 
thought  at  first  that  he  had  something  against  me, 
his  glance  was  so  confoundedly  malevolent.  He  was 
a  tall  young  chap  in  a  Norfolk  suit  with  a  soft  silk 
collar  and  scarlet  tie,  russia-leather  shoes  and  a 
watch  in  an  alligator  case  on  his  left  wrist.  A  gen- 
tleman evidently  by  the  look  of  him,  and  when  he 
said  to  me,  in  the  refined  voice  of  the  ordinary 
university  man,  *Are  you  walking  down  country?' 
I  made  up  my  mind  that  he  was  O.  K.  and  began  to 
converse. 

"One  thing  rather  puzzled  me,  and  that  was 
the  fact  that  he  and  the  landlord  did  not  speak  to 
each  other.  While  I  was  drinking  my  whisky  they 
both  talked  to  me  and  I  to  them,  but  they  did  not 
exchange  a  word.  I  thought  it  was  strange  that  a 
landlord  should  ignore  a  guest  like  that,  especially 
as  the  guest  didn't  look  as  if  he  would  stand  much 


ALIENS  31 

ignoring.  Indeed,  there  was  a  sort  of  glint  in  his 
dark  eyes  as  he  made  the  most  ordinary  remark 
that  struck  me  as  particularly  baleful.  However, 
we  talked  of  the  floods  and  my  tramp  and  hunting, 
etc.,  and  finally  I  decided  to  stop  the  night  there. 
The  landlord  went  off  to  order  supper  and  my  new 
friend  came  over  and  sat  down  beside  me.  Some- 
how or  other  I  found  myself  talking  over  old  times. 
On  thinking  the  matter  over  I  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  was  his  use  of  one  or  two  words 
like  'tool,'  meaning  *to  run  hard,'  that  led  me  to 
accept  him  as  one  of  us.  'Topping'  was  another 
word.  Before  I  was  aware  of  it,  and  without  his 
definitely  stating  the  fact,  I  was  treating  him  as  a 
public-school  man. 

"'Do  you  know  Surrey?'  he  asked  me.  'It's 
rather  jolly.' 

"'I  know  Guildford,'  I  said.  *I  was  at  school 
there.' 

"'Were""you"^really.'^'  he  replied,  and  he  began 
to  hum  *As  I  was  going  to  Salisbury/  which  is 
Charterhouse  and  nothing  else  as  you  will  remember. 
That  settled  it,  and  I  asked  him  whose  house  he 
was  in.  'Jerry  Bud's,'  he  told  me.  *I  was  in  old 
Martin's,'  I  said.  'Did  you  know  Belvoir?  He 
was  in  Bud's.* 

"'The  wine  merchant's  son?'  he  said,  and  I 
nodded. 

"He  gave  me  a  curious  look  at  this,  as  though 
he  was  suspicious  of  me.  'Seen  him  lately?'  he 
asked.  'Not  for  years,'  I  said.  'What  became 
of  him?'     *0h,  I  don't  know,'  he  said  as  though 


S«  ALIENS 

relieved.  *I  thought  perhaps  you^d  kept  it  up.  He 
went  into  the  army,  I  believe.* 

"We  talked  on  like  this,  giving  each  other  little 
items  of  information  about  different  fellows  we 
knew,  and  gradually  I  gave  him  my  own  history, 
what  there  is  of  it.  There  isn't  much,  as  you  know; 
Slade,  Beaux  Arts,  Chelsea,  and  now  Wigborough. 
He  wasn't  a  bit  interested,  didn't  seem  to  know 
what  the  word  artist  meant.  Regular  stereotyped 
public-school  man  in  that.  And  he  didn't  offer  me 
a  drink,  I  noticed,  after  we  had  had  a  peg  or  two  at 
my  expense.  However,  when  the  bath  was  ready 
and  I  got  up  to  go  to  it,  he  said,  'I'll  take  supper 
with  you  if  you  don't  mind.'  I  said,  '  with  pleasure,' 
*  charmed,'  of  course,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and 
went  off.  I  met  the  landlord  as  I  was  coming  down 
and  buttonholed  him.  He  told  me  all  about  it  at 
once. 

"'Mr.  Carville,  sir?  Yes,  that's  his  name.  Well, 
it's  a  rather  curious  case.  I  don't  know  what  to 
make  of  it  myself.  He  came  down  here  with  a  party 
of  university  gentlemen  about  a  month  ago.  Very 
nice  gentlemen  they  were,  sir,  and  were  very  free 
with  their  money,  Mr.  Carville  especially.  And 
then  they  all  went  off  except  him  with  a  motorin' 
party  that  spent  a  week-end  here.  Mr.  Carville 
he  said  they  was  coming  back,  you  see,  and  he'd 
wait  for  'em.  W^ell,  that's  three  weeks  gone  and 
he's  still  here  as  you  see.  He  says  that  he  expects 
a  cheque  any  day,  but  up  to  the  present .' 

"*Why,  hasn't  he  got  any  money?'  I  said. 

"'Well,  at  present,  sir,  there's  a  month's  bill. 


ALIENS  33 

Bein'  a  gentleman,  of  course,  I  knew  it  'ud  be  all 
right,  so  I  let  it  run.' 

"'Perhaps  he's  overdrawn,'  I  said. 

"'It's  possible,  sir,'  said  the  landlord. 

"Well,  I  went  down  to  supper,  full  of  the  poor 
chap's  story,  and  found  him  at  the  table  walking 
into  a  hefty  veal-and-ham  pie,  and  with  a  bottle 
of  wine  at  his  elbow. 

"'Come  on,'  he  says,  'or  you'll  be  too  late.* 
^  "We  went  at  it  and  made  a  good  meal,  and  he 
accepted  one  of  my  cigars.  It  suddenly  occurred 
to  me  that  I  knew  nothing  definite  about  the  man. 
He  hadn't  even  told  me  his  profession.  He  wasn't 
Church,  that  was  clear.  He  wasn't  Navy.  I  didn't 
think  he  was  Bar  either.  Army?  Yes,  but  you 
know  a  chap  in  the  army  is  bound  to  let  something 
out  about  himself  in  the  course  of  conversation. 
And,  moreover,  you  don't  find  army  men  hiding  in 
hunting  hotels  in  July.  Carville.''  Carville?  And 
then  I  decided  he  was  proud  and  kept  quiet  for  fear 
I  would  offer  him  a  loan.    Poor  chap ! 

"There  was  no  one  else  staying  at  the  Saxon 
Cross  Hotel  that  night,  and  we  had  the  big  smoking- 
room  to  ourselves.  And  after  a  time  I  put  it  to 
him  pointblank:  'What  on  earth  are  you  hanging 
about  down  here  for,  man?' 

"'Simply  because,'  said  he,  'I  haven't  the  cash 
to  pay  my  bill,  and  the  inland  revenue  has  run 
dry.' 

"'Where  do  you  bank?'  I  asked,  and  he  slapped 
his  pocket. 

"'Pa's  bank,'  he  replied,  'but  he  is  in  a  bit  of  a 


S4  ALIENS  ' 

temper  with  me,  I  think.    If  I  could  only  get  up  to 
town.' 

"*Why  didn't  you  explain  to  the  landlord.'*'  I 
asked  him.  He  looked  at  me  with  a  scowl.  'I  don't 
explain  anything  to  people  of  that  class,'  he  said. 

"'What '11  you  take.'*'  I  asked  him,  and  he  leaned 
over  and  put  his  face  close  to  mine.  'Oh,  damn 
the  money,'  he  said.  'The  fellow  will  take  an 
lOU  if  you  endorse  it.'  *Nay,'  I  said.  'Let  me  pay 
it,  and  when  your  ship  comes  home,  all  right.'  He 
took  another  whisky.  'Will  you.'*'  he  said.  'Will 
you  help  a  stranger  like  that.'*' 

"*An  old  public  school  man  is  not  a  stranger,'  I 
said.  'I  think  your  pals  are  rather  a  rotten  lot  to 
leave  you  in  the  lurch  like  this.'  'Fair  weather 
friends,'  he  answered.  'Young  men  with  too  much 
money.  Very  decent  chaps  so  long  as  you  have 
plenty  of  cash.  Very  awkward.  I  have  business  in 
town  as  a  matter  of  fact.  Will  you  really  take  my 
lOU  for  this.f*  It's  only  a  few  quid,  you  know.' 
.  "It  was  fourteen  pounds,  and  took  up  the  bal- 
ance of  my  holiday  stock.  Rather  foolish  I  know 
you  will  say,  but  after  all  we  ought  to  stand  by 
each  other.  And  it  was  worth  it.  Honestly,  it  was 
worth  it!  That  chap  became  the  most  animated 
creature  in  Huntingdonshire  when  the  arrangement 
was  concluded.  He  opened  the  piano  and  sang 
song  after  song,  he  jabbered  at  me  in  French,  he 
got  on  the  big  table  and  danced,  he  took  a  tumbler 
and  a  napkin  and  did  conjuring  tricks,  he  ordered 
a  bottle  of  brandy  and  cigars.  I  was  rather  tired 
when  I  came  in,  but  he  would  have  none  of  it.    He 


ALIENS  85 

told  me  stories,  and  I  judged  he  must  have  traveled 
a  good  deal.  He  asked  me  if  I  knew  anything  about 
automobiles.  I  rather  wondered  at  this.  *I  am 
going  to  take  up  an  agency,'  he  said.  'That's  why 
I  want  to  get  to  town.'  It  seemed  a  mad  thing  for  a 
gentleman  to  do,  and  I  said  so.  He  darted  a  fierce 
look  at  me  over  his  glass  of  brandy.  *It  takes  a 
gentleman  to  sell  to  a  gentleman,'  he  said. 

*'I  didn't  lie  awake  very  long  after  we  did  go  to 
bed,  I  can  assure  you.  We  took  our  candles,  I  re- 
member, and  I  told  him  we  must  breakfast  together. 
The  next  thing  I  remember  was  the  chambermaid 
knocking  at  my  door  and  saying  it  was  ten  o'clock. 
Of  course  he  was  gone.  You've  been  expecting  me 
to  tell  you  that,  I  suppose.  He  was  gone,  and  I 
was  fourteen  pounds  to  the  bad,  unless  he  redeemed 
his  lOU.  He  had  told  the  landlord  to  drive  him 
into  Peterboro';  and  as  I  came  down  to  breakfast 
the  trap  returned.  Of  course,  neither  of  us  ever 
expected  to  see  him  again,  and  when  I  looked  at  his 
lOU  in  the  cold  light  of  the  day,  it  seemed  a  very 
flimsy  guarantee  for  my  money.  There  was  only 
one  thing  about  that  lOU.  It  was  written  on  the 
unused  page  torn  from  a  letter,  and  the  watermark 
of  the  paper  was  Lydgate  Bond.  It  was  the  same 
size  as  Trojan  Club  paper  too,  for  you  know  I  belong 
to  the  Trojan  Club,  and  Trojans  are  not  men  who 
write  to  outsiders  much.  Not  on  club  paper  any- 
way. In  fact,  the  very  audacity  of  the  man  led  me 
to  blame  myself  for  doubting  him.  He  had  not  be- 
haved just  as  a  gentleman  should,  but  on  the  other 
hand  he  had  done  nothing  underhand.    There  was  a 


36  ALIENS 

damn-you  look  about  him  that  made  it  unbehevable 
that  he  was  a  fraud.  Soon  after  breakfast  I  set  out 
on  my  tramp,  and,  going  through  Stilton  and  Hunt- 
ingdon, made  for  Cambridge.  All  the  way  along 
I  could  not  help  thinking  about  my  boon  com- 
panion of  the  night  before,  and  wondering  if  I 
should  ever  meet  him  again.  It  seemed  very  un- 
likely. He  was  so  interesting,  quite  apart  from  his 
pecuUar  financial  position,  and  he  gave  one  such 
an  impression  of  indomitable  will  power,  with  his 
hawk-like  face  and  brilliant  eyes,  that  I  wished  I 
had  made  some  sketches  of  him.  But  he  had  not 
even  asked  to  see  my  portfoho. 

"Two  or  three  days  later  I  reached  home,  and 
in  the  general  worry  of  getting  into  harness  again 
I  forgot  my  gentleman  for  a  while.  It  so  happened, 
however,  that  my  dealer,  about  a  fortnight  later, 
asked  me  to  run  up  and  call  at  his  place  in  the 
Haymarket,  as  he  had  a  commission  for  me  and 
his  client  wanted  to  see  me.  I  hiked  into  Col- 
chester and  took  the  train  to  London.  Business 
over,  I  went  round  to  look  in  at  the  Trojan's  before 
I  took  a  taxi  for  Liverpool  Street.  Just  as  I  turned 
into  Dover  Street,  an  enormous  claret-coloured  car 
came  up  with  a  horrible  noise  on  the  horn,  and 
stopped  at  the  Trojan's  door-step.  I  know  there 
are  plenty  of  cars  of  large  size  about,  but  this  one 
was  overwhelming.  Everything  about  it  was  huge. 
The  head-light  was  as  big  as  a  dog-kennel,  and  the 
steering-wheel  was  a  yard  across.  As  the  car 
stopped,  a  lot  of  fellows  got  out  of  the  tonneau  and 
the  driver  followed,  taking  off  his  goggles. 


ALIENS  S7 

**Yes,  my  dear  Bill,  it  is  just  as  you  imagine. 
The  driver  was  my  companion  of  the  Saxon  Cross 
Hotel.  He  recognized  me  at  once  as  I  turned  to 
enter  the  Club.  He  really  was  a  big  man  and  he 
looked  much  bigger  in  his  long  motoring  overall 
than  in  his  knickerbockers.  'Great  Scott!'  he  ex- 
claimed. 'It's  you!  Do  come  in.  I  say,  you  chaps,* 
he  called.  'Here's  a  bit  of  luck.  A  friend  of  mine.' 
I  was  introduced,  and  he  towered  over  me  smiling, 
his  great  hook  nose  dividing  his  face  and  distracting 
one's  attention  from  his  eyes.  We  sat  down  to  tea, 
and  he  told  the  other  men  the  tale  of  our  meeting, 
omitting  any  mention  of  the  fourteen  pounds,  how- 
ever, for  which  I  was  rather  glad.  I  shouldn't  like 
those  chaps  to  think  I  was  a  bally  usurer.  I  made 
a  move  to  go,  but  he  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  I  was 
to  go  to  his  place  to  dinner.  We  went  in  the  car. 
It  was  more  like  an  omnibus  than  a  private  vehicle. 
I  sat  beside  him  as  we  flew  down  Dover  Street, 
across  Piccadilly  and  into  St.  James'.  He  told  me  he 
had  sold  three  cars  like  this  in  a  week  to  Lord  This 
and  the  Duke  of  That — I  forget  the  names.  He 
told  me,  moreover,  that  his  commission  on  each  car 
was  four  hundred  pounds.  And  when  we  reached  his 
chambers  and  I  saw  his  furniture  and  flowers  and 
pictures  and  servants'  livery,  I  could  quite  believe  it. 
He  was  living  at  the  rate  of  ten  thousand  a  year. 
W^ell,  we  dined  as  we  were,  Carville  insisting  that  as 
I  was  up  from  the  country  they  should  bar  evening 
dress  for  one  night.  This  was  rather  pretty  in  its 
way,  and  I  found  he  was  a  curious  mixture  of 
prettiness    and   downright   brutal   ruthlessness.      I 


38  ALIENS 

found  a  man  I  knew  slightly  among  the  guests,  a 
chap  named  Effon,  son  of  the  soap  man,  and  he 
told  me  that  Carville  was  one  of  the  most  extraor- 
dinary men  he  had  ever  met,  that  women  would 
almost  come  to  him  at  the  crooking  of  his  finger, 
and  even  men  of  mature  age  were  dominated  by 
him.  And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  soon  after  Effon 
told  me  this,  there  was  a  case  in  point.  Carville's 
flat  looked  from  the  second  floor  on  St.  James' 
Street.  One  of  the  men  who  lived  at  Chislehurst 
wanted  to  catch  the  12.6  at  Victoria  and  mentioned 
casually  to  the  servant  to  bring  a  car  round.  *You 
won't  catch  the  12.6,'  says  Carville.  *0h,  yes,  I 
shall,'  said  the  other  man.  'I  bet  you  a  fiver  you 
won't,'  says  Carville.  *Done,'  said  the  other.  It 
was  about  twenty  minutes  to  twelve  then,  and 
in  the  buzz  of  conversation  and  a  couple  of  games 
of  cards  Carville  forgot  his  bet  for  a  moment. 
Suddenly  he  saw  that  the  fellow  was  gone.  He 
rushed  to  the  door  and  found  it  locked.  Of  course 
we  all  saw  the  game,  and  believed  that  Carville 
would  laugh  and  admit  himself  out-manceuvred. 
Not  a  bit  of  it.  He  turned  on  us,  one  hand  on  the 
door  handle,  and  his  face  grew  absolutely  black 
with  rage.  Honest  Injun,  I  was  scared  of  him 
then!  He  bounded  across  the  room,  opened  the 
window,  sprang  out  upon  the  big  stone  coping 
and  ran  along  to  the  next  flat.  Here  he  opened 
the  window — (I've  heard  afterward  that  the  peo- 
ple were  just  getting  into  bed) — stepped  in,  ex- 
plained he  was  doing  it  for  a  bet,  ran  to  the  door, 
down  the  stairs,  and  taking  a  flying  leap  from  the 


ALIENS  39 

top  step  landed  with  both  feet  on  the  bonnet  of  the 
car  just  as  it  was  starting.  Of  course,  he  smashed 
the  sparking  plugs,  ignition  gear  and  a  lot  of  other 
details.  We  all  crowded  to  the  window  and  looked 
out.    He  had  won  his  bet. 

"He  came  back  smiling  and  assuring  the  chap 
that  the  morning  would  do  just  as  well  for  Chisle- 
hurst.  The  party  broke  up  soon  after  and  we  went 
to  bed.  At  breakfast  the  next  morning  he  was 
charming,  wrote  me  a  cheque  for  the  money,  sitting 
in  a  gilt  chair  and  writing  on  a  Louis  Seize  secre- 
taire. 

"'I  forgot  about  you,'  he  tol,d  me.  *I  had  to 
rush  round  rather  when  I  came  to  town,  and  it 
put  the  matter  out  of  my  head.  You  don't  go  in 
for  motoring,  I  suppose,  down  in  Essex?'  I  said, 
no,  I  was  working.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  *I 
race  to-day  at  three,'  he  said.  *  Where?'  I  asked. 
'I'd  like  to  go  to  see  it.'  *Ashby-de-la-Zouch,' 
he  answered.  *It  takes  just  three  hours  to  run 
down.'  Of  course,  I  couldn't  go  down  into  Leices- 
tershire, and  said  so.  He  smiled  'another  time.' 
We  exchanged  cards  again  and  his  man  called  a 
cab  for  me.  A  chauffeur  came  up  with  a  prodi- 
giously long-bonneted  and  low-seated  machine,  and 
Carville  followed  me  down  stairs.  He  got  in  and 
waved  his  hand.  With  a  spring  the  car  leaped 
from  the  kerb — no  other  word  will  describe  the 
starting  of  that  car.  I  suppose  it  must  have  been 
at  least  a  hundred  horse  power.  In  a  flash  it  was 
round  the  corner  and  gone.  I  climbed  into  my 
cab  and  made  my  humble  way  to  Liverpool  Street, 


40  ALIENS 

eventually  reaching  Wigborough,  and  taking  up  the 
daily  round  and  the  common  task. 

"Now  what  do  you  think  of  that  chap,  Bill? 
I  think  you  will  disapprove,  because  for  all  your 
wild-West  adventures,  San  Francisco  earthquakes, 
etc.,  you  are  a  steady-going  old  girl  and  object  to 
such  rampaging  persons  as  this  Carville.  But  I 
have  been  thinking  that  after  all,  if  one  is  an  artist, 
everything  in  the  world  has  a  certain  'value.'  I 
don't  quite  know  how  to  explain  what  I  really  do 
feel,  but  anyhow  men  like  Carville  appear  to  me  as 
vivid  bits  of  colour  in  the  composition  of  life.  Taken 
by  themselves  they  are  all  out  of  drawing,  and  too 
loud,  but  in  the  general  arrangement  they  fit  in 
perfectly.  They  inspire  one's  imagination  too, 
don't  you  think?  I  shall  never  forget  that  chap's 
black  rage,  his  blazing  eyes,  his  hooked  nose  as  he 
stood  by  the  locked  door.  I  wonder  what  the  peo- 
ple next  door  thought,  just  getting  into  bed! 

"This  is  a  letter,  eh!  Well,  I  must  dry  up,  or  I 
shall  never  get  to  bed.  If  I  see  any  more  of  my 
strange  friend  I'll  let  you  know.  Love  to  all  at 
Netley  as  usual.  When  are  you  coming  home  to 
dear  old  rainy  England? 

"Yours  ever, 

"Cecil. 

"P.  S. — If  you  could  get  me  some  of  those  jolly 
little  paper  fans  you  sent  me  from  Chinatown  last 
Christmas,  please  do. 

"Cecil." 


CHAPTER  IV 

Miss  Fraenkel 

I  FOLDED  up  the  thin  crackling  sheets  of  paper 
and  handed  them  to  Bill,  who  took  them  with- 
out comment,  and  for  some  time  we  sat  rocking 
in  the  twilight,  absorbed  in  our  own  thoughts. 
It  must  not  be  imagined  for  a  moment  that  we, 
and  least  of  all  I,  an  experienced  and  professional 
author,  accepted  this  contribution  to  our  investiga- 
tions without  reserve.  A  lengthy  apprenticeship  to 
life  warned  us  that  "things  do  not  happen  that 
way."  But  just  for  a  few  moments  (and  this  was 
the  cause  of  our  silence)  we  revelled  in  the  delicious 
sensation  of  having  beheld  in  one  of  its  most  in- 
credible gestures  the  long  arm  of  coincidence. 
Swiftly  we  sketched  out  the  story.  Eagle-faced 
adventurer — marries  his  mistress — casts  her  off — 
leaves  her  penniless  in  New  York — she  blackmails 
him — he  grants  her  an  income — agent  in  New  York 
takes  charge  of  letters — yes,  it  hung  together — it 
hung  together,  coincided! 

Personally  I  was  a  little  disappointed  after  the 
first  flush  of  excitement.  I  thought  it  a  little  melo- 
dramatic and  I  abhor  melodrama.  I  wanted  some- 
thing finer,  something  with  a  touch  of  great 
sentiment,  something  commensurate  with  the  beauty 
and  dignity  of  the  woman's  bodily  frame,  something 
that  would  explain  and  gild  with  delicate  interest 
the    expression    of    sombre    and    uncommunicative 

41 


42  ALIENS 

melancholy  that  hung  Hke  a  cloud  over  her  face. 
I  felt  reluctant  to  delve  further  into  a  history  that 
was  footed  upon  so  unsatisfactory  a  foundation  as 
this  enigmatic  creature  who  had  blazed  suddenly 
upon  the  painter-cousin's  vision,  a  mere  spendthrift 
man  of  pleasure,  inarticulate  save  in  his  startlingly 
decadent  behaviour.  After  all,  what  had  he  done, 
this  fine  gentleman  with  an  eagle  face  and  iron 
will?  Sold  a  few  automobiles  to  the  aristocracy. 
Pooh!  In  America  he  would  pass  as  a  hustling 
business  man  with  unconventional  ideas.  In  grey, 
feudal  old  London,  no  doubt,  he  appeared  as  a 
meteoric  genius,  a  veritable  Napoleon  of  salesman' 

ship,  a  marvel.    But  here ! 

j     "  Well,"  I  said,  at  length, "  what  do  you  think  of  it?  " 

Bill  slipped  out  of  her  chair  and  prepared  to  go 
in  and  get  the  dinner  ready.    We  dine  at  six. 

"I  think,"  said  she,  "that  there  is  nothing  in  it. 
It's  hardly  Hkely  that — well,  is  it?"  she  asked, 
vaguely. 

"No,"  we  agreed,  "it  isn't." 

"Still,"  I  added,  "it  is  a  most  interesting  com- 
mentary upon  our  own  little  problem.  It  only 
shows  how  indefinitely  one  might  extend  the  rami- 
fications of  a  trivial  tale.  Of  course,  the  children 
believe  implicitly  in  the  statement  that  he  is  at  sea. 
If  that  be  a  legend,  it  is  clever.  But  then — it  is 
impossible." 

"It's  not  a  common  name,"  remarked  Mac,  filling 
his  pipe. 

"It's  a  very  easily  assumed  one,"  I  argued.  "It's 
a  name  you  can't  argue  about.     It  might  be  Irish, 


ALIENS  43 

Frencli,  Italian,  Spanish  or  American.  It  tells  you 
nothing." 

Bill  paused  at  the  door. 

"I  don't  suppose  he  had  anything  to  do  with 
giving  the  children  those  awful  names,'*  she  sug- 
gested. 

"Oh,  as  for  that,  I  have  known  plenty  of  mothers 
who  claim  that  right,"  I  responded.  "That  does 
not  amount  to  much.  No.  There  are  two  points 
that  seem  to  me  to  invahdate  the  claim  of  this 
gentleman  to  any  connection  with  our  neighbours, 
but  that  is  not  one  of  them." 

"What  are  they?"  inquired  Mac.  Bill  opened 
the  door  and  went  in.    I  cleared  my  throat. 

"First,"  I  said,  "there  is  the  entirely  fanciful 
argument  that  such  a  man  as  Cecil  has  described 
would  not  be  attracted  by  such  a  woman  as — Mrs. 
Carville.  I  can't  explain  in  so  many  words  why 
I  think  so,  but  I  do.  I  don't  believe  she  would 
attract  him.  If  you  consider  a  moment,  you  will 
see  it.  The  English  gentleman  of  good  family  and 
birth,  when  he  has  once  broken  out  of  his  own 
social  world,  does  not  show  much  taste  and  dis- 
crimination in  the  choice  of  a  wife  or  mistress." 

"Well,"  said  Mac. 

"Second,  we  have  the  incontestable  fact  that 
Benvenuto  Cellini,  though  sharing  his  illustrious 
brother's  features  and  histrionic  talent,  has  blue 
eyes  and  fair  hair.    Where  did  he  get  them.-^" 

"Something  in  that,"  my  friend  admitted,  throw- 
ing his  match  into  the  darkness.  "We'll  have  to 
hunt  round  for  a  tertium  quidy  so  to  speak." 


44  ALIENS 

"You  put  it  pithily,"  I  asserted.  "Personally  I 
am  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  Cecil's  story, 
while  certainly  interesting  in  itself,  does  not  help 
us  at  all  with  oiu*  own  difficulty.  I  am  inclined  to 
think  that  he  is  of  our  nation  and  fair  complexion. 
Really,  when  you  reflect,  it  is  unjust  to  assume 
your  tertium  quid  and  complicate  the  story — yet. 
We  have  no  actual  evidence  of  her — obhquity." 

"No,"  said  Mac.    "Let's  wait." 

"We  must,"  I  replied.  "The  children  them- 
selves will  no  doubt  provide  us  with  plenty  of  food 
for  conjecture  if  they  go  on  as  they  have  begun. 
We  are  good  friends  now,  they  and  I." 

"You  surpassed  yourself  as  an  Indian,"  he 
laughed. 

"Hostile,"  I  corrected.  "Did  you  notice  the 
realistic  way  in  which  Giuseppe  Mazzini  fell.'^"  He 
nodded. 

"You'll  have  to  be  a  cow-boy  to-morrow,"  he 
remarked.  "You  might  suggest  rounding  up  their 
confounded  chickens  and  set  them  to  repairing  that 
fence." 

"I  shall  be  a  cow-boy  with  enthusiasm,"  I  said. 
"Under  my  breast  beats  an  adventurous  heart,  be- 
lieve me.  As  for  the  fence,  I  would  rather  not  get 
into  trouble  by  interfering  with  their  affairs." 

"She  didn't  seem  any  too  friendly." 

"Hostile  would  describe  it  better." 

'*  Still,  if  you  could  get  a  word  with  her,  it  might 
elucidate  the  mystery?"  "Yes,"  I  said,  as  the  gong 
tinkled  within. 

"  Chop,"  said  he,  and  we  went  in  to  dinner. 


ALIENS  45 

We  had  reached  the  cheese  and  celery  before  Bill 
contributed  a  piece  of  news  that  impressed  us  in 
different  v/ays. 

"I  'phoned  Miss  Fraenkel  this  morning,"  she 
said,  "and  asked  her  to  come  up  after  dinner  this 
evening.  She  said  she'd  be  tickled  to  death  to 
come." 

I  said  nothing  at  first,  and  Mac,  annexing  an 
unusually  large  piece  of  cheese,  grinned. 

"Say,"  he  said,  "suppose  we  get  Miss  Fraenkel's 
opinion  of  the  chap  with  the  hooked  nose.  She's 
American;  she'll  be  sure  to  have  an  opinion." 

"No  doubt,"  I  conceded.  "We  shall  see  whether 
we  have  not  taken  too  much  for  granted.  There's 
only  one  thing,  and  that  is,  are  we  not  exposing 
Miss  Fraenkel  to  temptation  by  exciting  her  curi- 
osity yet  more  about  her  neighbour.?" 

"Oh,  bunk!"  said  Mac.  "Women  don't  have  to 
be  led  into  that  sort  of  temptation.  They  take  it 
in  with  their  mother's  milk." 

"You  cynical  old  devil!"  exclaimed  Bill,  in- 
dignantly. 

"Well,  it's  true,"  he  defended  himself  stoutly. 
"I'll  bet  you  a  quarter  Miss  Fraenkel's  already 
tried  them  and  found  them  guilty." 

"Of  what.?"  demanded  Bill. 

"Oh,  ask  Miss  Fraenkel,"  said  he.  "How  should 
I  know.?" 

"I  think,"  I  said,  gently,  "you  are  making  a 
mistake.  Consider!  Miss  Fraenkel  is  no  doubt  in- 
terested in  her  neighbours,  like  any  other  woman. 
But  you  make  a  big  mistake  if  you  imagine  that 


46  ALIENS 

ordinary  people,  people  who  are  not  professionally 
concerned  with  human  nature,  are  accustomed  to 
draw  conclusions  and  observe  character,  as — as  we 
do,  for  example.  I  have  always  thought,"  I  went 
on,  stirring  my  coffee,  "that  Jane  Austen  made  this 
same  mistake.  She  takes  a  small  community,  much 
Hke  Netley,  N.J.,  and  suggests,  by  the  conversation 
of  the  characters,  that  they  are  all  as  observant  and 
as  shrewd  as  herseK.  We  feel  it  was  not  so.  Nay, 
we  know  it  was  not  so,  for  Jane's  genius  in  that 
direction  was  almost  uncanny.  Now  there  is,  I  am 
safe  in  saying,  nothing  uncanny  about  Miss 
Fraenkel." 

"She's  very  nice!"  said  Bill,  nodding  blithely  at 
me  over  her  cup. 

I  am  loth  to  give  any  colour  to  the  suspicion  that 
I  am  about  to  confuse  my  narrative  with  extraneous 
details;  but  I  must  confess  that  Bill's  laconic  benison 
had  for  me  a  personal  appeal.  She  was,  I  felt, 
entirely  and  generously  right.  She  had  not  over- 
stepped the  mark  at  all.  Miss  Fraenkel  was  very 
nice,  but — it  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  story.  It 
is  a  point  of  honour  with  me  to  put  Miss  Fraenkel 
in  her  place,  if  I  may  express  it  so  without  dis- 
courtesy, and  that  place  is  certainly  modest  and 
inconspicuous.  Miss  Fraenkel's  light  was  very  clear 
and  very  bright,  but  illuminated  only  a  small  area. 
She  wrote  an  admirable  paper  and  read  it  clearly 
and  impressively  at  the  Women's  Club  on  "The 
Human  Touch  in  Ostrovsky."  Indeed,  for  one  who 
had  read  so  little  of  Ostrovsky  it  was  a  most  credit- 
able piece  of  work.    It  was  in  her  estimate  of  the 


ALIENS  47 

English  character  that  she  was,  I  venture  to  think, 
less  successful,  more  narrow  in  fact.  You  see,  she 
was  naturally  confused  by  two  facts.  In  the  first 
place  the  similarity  of  the  English  and  American 
languages  seemed  to  her  to  warrant  a  certain  simili- 
tude between  the  two  nations;  and  secondly,  her 
intimacy  with  the  English  people  was  practically 
confined  to  us  three,  who  had  been  in  America 
nearly  seven  years,  and  who,  in  consequence,  had 
shrouded  our  more  saHent  insularities  beneath  a 
cloak  of  cosmopolitan  aplomb.  Neither  our  speech 
nor  our  outlook  upon  life  could  be  taken  as  typical 
of  our  great  and  noble-hearted  nation.  Yet  she  did 
take  us  in  that  sense,  with  the  result  that  in  her 
conception  of  the  United  Kingdom  it  was  a  rather 
fantastic  and  clumsily-fashioned  small-scale  model  of 
the  United  States. 

We  had  first  met  her,  not  in  New  Jersey  at  all, 
but  in  New  York.  After  the  earthquake,  which  I 
have  mentioned  as  lifting  us  and  many  others  from 
more  or  less  comfortable  sockets  in  San  Francisco 
and  scattering  us  over  tlie  Union,  we  found  it  a 
matter  of  some  difficulty  to  rise  to  our  accustomed 
level  in  New  York.  It  really  seemed,  what  with 
the  failure  of  inspiration  and  our  lack  of  suitable 
introductions,  that  the  mighty  mill-stream  of  Man- 
hattan would  bear  us  away  and  fling  us  over  the 
rocks  to  destruction  before  we  could  ever  get  our 
heads  above  the  surface. 

Of  those  first  days  in  East  118th  Street  none  of 
us  are  disposed  to  speak.  We  might  have  gone 
back  to  England — surely   so   dire   a   calamity,   so 


48  ALIENS 

utter  a  personal  ruin,  justified  a  relinquishment  of 
our  purpose.  But  we  had  not  gone,  anyway.  We 
could  not  contemplate  the  solicitous  sympathy  of 
friends  who  disliked  America,  who  had  protested 
against  our  emigration  in  the  first  place.  We  did 
not  dislike  America,  nor  did  we  blame  her  for  our 
misfortunes.  Our  friends,  even  the  painter-cousin, 
could  not  understand  that  we  did  not  dislike  Amer- 
ica. They  were  misled  by  our  occasional  and  quite 
natural  sighs  for  a  sight  of  the  quiet  Enghsh  land- 
scape, and  our  joking  remarks  about  the  customs 
regulations.  So  we  stayed  and  fought,  with  our 
backs  to  the  not  over-clean  walls  of  118th  Street. 
It  was  slow  progress  from  118th  to  18tli  Street 
and  from  there  to  a  real  flat  in  Lexington  Avenue, 
where  it  so  happened  that  Miss  Fraenkel  had,  and 
still  has,  a  married  sister.  Bill  and  the  married 
sister  became  warm  friends,  discovering  in  each 
other  a  common  dislike  of  pink,  and  it  was  she  who 
introduced  us  formally;  though  in  a  casual  way 
Miss  Fraenkel  and  I  met  occasionally  on  the  stairs. 
And  so  it  came  about  that  when  we  felt  able  to 
abandon  Lexington  Avenue,  in  favour  of  a  purer  air 
and  water  supply.  Miss  Fraenkel  chanted  the  praises 
of  her  own  Netley  in  thei  Garden  State,  and  Bill, 
journeying  thither  to  spy  out  the  land,  returned  an 
hour  late  for  dinner,  and  incoherent  with  horticul- 
tural details. 

It  will  be  seen  that  though  undoubtedly  com- 
petent to  criticize  Ostrovsky  or  Mrs.  Carville  jper 
se.  Miss  Fraenkel's  opinion  of  the  painter-cousin's 
discovery  would  be  interesting  only  for  its  noveltv 


ALIENS  49 

and  irrelevance.  I  did  not  express  my  conviction 
quite  as  frankly  as  this,  since  my  friend,  though  in 
sympathy  with  his  wife's  matrimonial  plans,  could 
not  forbear  to  indulge  in  a  mild  hazing  at  my  ex- 
pense. I  contented  myself  with  opening  the  piano 
and  pushing  him  into  the  seat.  It  is  our  custom  to 
have  music  after  dinner. 

Only  those  who  have  written  verse  professionally 
can  realize  the  extent  to  which  music  acts  as  a 
solvent  upon  apparently  insoluble  difficulties  of 
rhyme  and  sentiment.  It  had  become  a  habit  with 
me  to  leave  any  such  problem  of  prosody  to  one 
side  and  take  it  up  again  only  when  my  friend 
opened  his  piano.  Having  completed  an  opera 
some  time  before,  I  had  at  this  time  no  such  trouble, 
and  so,  as  he  broke  abruptly  into  that  prodigious 
composition,  the  Overture  to  Tannhduser,  I  gave 
myself  up  to  an  unfettered  consideration  of  the 
mystery  of  life  and  the  complexity  of  our  multi- 
tudinous contacts  with  one  another.  It  is  not 
enough,  I  reflected,  to  say  that  we  make  and  pass. 
We  make  and  remake,  we  pass  and,  pausing  on  the 
brink  of  oblivion,  return  to  spoil  our  first  fine  care- 
less raptures.  We  make  and  pass;  but  the  early 
dawn  of  our  making  is  reddened  by  the  sunset  of 
another's  decline.  We  are  agitated  by  the  original- 
ity of  our  ideas,  unaware  that  they  are  born  simul- 
taneously in  a  thousand  minds,  and  are  woven  into 
the  texture  of  our  time-spirit  in  a  thousand-times- 
repeated  design.  Von  Roon,  in  Chelsea,  used  to 
say  that  "a  man's  mind  was  like  a  chamber  papered 
with  used  postage  stamps.    Examine  them  separately 


50  ALIENS 

and  they  were  of  no  value;  they  were  merely  can- 
celled symbols  of  forgotten  messages.  View  them  as 
a  whole  and  they  formed  an  interesting  and  con- 
fusing composition."  Time,  and  our  proximity  to 
other  cancelled  symbols,  is  no  guarantee  of  interior 
understanding.  The  Great  Decorator  has  arranged 
us  without  regard  for  our  individual  merits  or  past 
intrinsic  values,  we  are  but  points  of  colour  in  his 
immense  and  arbitrary  arrangement.  I  was  following 
up  this  thought,  when  the  brass  Canterbury  Pilgrim 
that  serves  us  for  a  knocker  was  vigorously  sounded, 
and  I  sprang  to  open  the  door  to  Miss  Fraenkel. 

She  stepped  briskly  into  the  room,  looked  round 
and  smiled. 

"Three  times,"  she  declared  as  I  assisted  her  to 
remove  her  jacket.  "But  I  forgive  you  if  you'll 
only  play  that  won — derful  thing  again!" 

In  person  Miss  Fraenkel  was  of  middle  size, 
admirably  proportioned  and  situated  in  tone  on 
the  borderland  between  the  blonde  and  the 
brunette.  By  which  I  mean  that  her  hair  was 
brown,  her  eye  a  warm  hazel,  and  her  skin  of  a 
satiny  pallor  that  formed  an  effective  background 
for  a  delightful  flush  that  suffused  her  piquant 
features  whenever  her  enthusiasm  was  roused.  And 
her  enthusiasm  was  continually  being  roused.  To  us 
cold  Britons  the  abandon  with  which  she,  in  com- 
mon with  her  countrywomen,  gave  herself  "up  to  the 
enjoyment  of  a  picture,  a  book,  a  landscape,  or  for 
that  matter  of  a  person,  was  a  most  fascinating 
spectacle.  American  women  strongly  resemble 
champagne.     At   a   certain   age   they   are   incom- 


ALIENS  51 

parably  stimulating,  but  intimacy  with  them  in- 
volves a  sort  of  "headiness"  that  demands  discre- 
tion; a  nervous  energy  emanates  from  them  that 
tends  to  relax  the  critical  faculty.  There  is,  more- 
over, a  tendency  to  turgescence  in  their  speech  that 
leads  the  unwary  into  a  false  estimate  of  their 
intellectual  range. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  conversation  could 
be  guided  round  to  the  subject  which  we  three  at 
any  rate  had  at  heart.  Explosive  cries  of  delight 
over  Mac's  last  etching.  Bill's  new  waist  and  a 
Chinese  print  I  had  recently  acquired,  were  a  mat- 
ter of  course.  In  deference  to  an  unuttered  request 
we  adjourned  to  the  studio  upstairs,  for  Miss 
Fraenkel  had  been  from  the  first  candidly  attracted 
by  the  suggestion  of  bohemianism  in  our  menage. 
It  was  not  her  romantic  view  of  an  artist's  life,  how- 
ever, that  distinguished  her  from  any  other  young 
and  romantic  lady,  but  her  frankness  and  eloquence 
in  acknowledging  it.  "It  must  be  grand,"  she  had 
told  me  in  Lexington  Avenue,  "to  be  a  grisette." 
We  had  admitted  that  it  must,  but  had  been  unable 
to  share  her  regret  thatshe  had  not  been  a  man  "so 
thatJshe  could  see  everything."  She  was  very  charm- 
ing as  she  was. 

Of  course  she  knew  of  the  painter-cousin  and  in- 
deed, as  soon  as  she  could  think  of  it,  gave  us  the 
needed  opening. 

"I  saw  a  letter  with  an  English  postmark  for 
you,"  she  observed,  examining  the  bottom  of  a 
piece  of  china  that  rested  near  her  shoulder.  "Did 
you  get  it  .5^" 


52  ALIENS 

*'We  want  you  to  give  us  an  opinion  about  it. 
Miss  Fraenkel,"  said  Bill,  bringing  out  the  letter 
and  giving  it  to  her.  She  accepted  the  packet  in 
some  uncertainty. 

"I!"  she  said,  "give  an  opinion?  I  don't  get  it, 
I'm  afraid." 

"Read  it,"  said  Bill. 

And  she  did.  We  sat  round  her,  as  she  sat  on 
the  broad  flat  box  that  Mac  called  a  "throne,"  in 
a  semicircle,  and  studied  the  varying  expressions 
that  crossed  her  face  as  her  eyes  travelled  down 
the  pages.  It  occurred  to  me  after  I  had  retired  to 
my  room  that  night,  that  an  English  girl  of  twenty- 
one  would  not  have  weathered  the  concentrated 
gaze  of  three  strangers  with  such  serenity  of  fea- 
tures. An  observant  and  invisible  critic  might  have 
imagined  us  to  have  been  awaiting  the  decision  of 
a  young  and  charming  Sibyl,  so  intently  did  we 
gaze  and  so  neglectful  was  she  of  our  regard.  This 
apparent  coldness  was  explained  to  me  by  Bill  as  a 
characteristic  of  the  American  woman.  "They  like 
to  be  admired,"  she  told  me.  "And  so  they  don't 
mind  if  you  do  stare  at  them." 

Miss  Fraenkel  looked  up  with  a  smile  of  com- 
prehension. 

"What  a  perfectly  lovely  letter!"  she  exclaimed. 

Bill  took  the  sheets  and  thrust  them  into  the 
envelope. 

"He  must  be  a  very  interesting  man,  don't  you 
think.?" 

"Surely!  Oh,  I  should  give  anything  to  see  his 
home.     You've  described  it  to  me,  so  I  know  all 


ALIENS  53 

about  it.  Gainsborough  landscape,  and  red  tiles  on 
the  cottages!"    She  clasped  her  hands. 

"I  mean  the  man  my  cousin  met,"  said  Bill, 
gently.     "Carville." 

"Oh,  him!"  Miss  Fraenkel  looked  at  each  of  us 
for  an  instant  to  catch  some  inkling  of  our  behaviour. 

"Same  name  as "  and  Mac  jerked  his  thumb 

over  his  shoulder. 

Miss  Fraenkel's  face  did  not  clear. 

"We  thought,"  I  said  heavily,   "that  this  man 

in  England,  you  loiow,  might  have "    I  stopped, 

dismayed  by  her  lack  of  appreciation.  She  seemed 
unable  to  grasp  the  simple  links  of  our  brilliant 
theory.  We  had  omitted  to  calculate  upon  the 
indifference  of  the  modern  American  temperament 
to  names.  A  foul  murder  had  been  committed 
a  short  time  back  by  a  gambler  named  Fraenkel, 
yet  she  would  have  laughed  at  the  suggestion  that 
such  a  coincidence  should  cause  her  any  annoyance. 

"I  don't  get  it,"  she  said,  smiling,  and  we  saw 
plainly  enough  that  she  did  not  get  it.  We  were 
crushed.  I  explained  in  more  detail  the  reason  for 
which  we  had  ventured  to  connect  the  two  stories. 
We  could  see  her  trying  to  understand. 

"You  mean — ^just  as  if  it  was  a  photo-play,"  she 
faltered. 

It  does  not  matter  now,  and  I  admit  that  this 
put  me  out  of  humour.  And  yet  it  was  true.  We 
were  really  no  nearer  an  actual  and  bona  fide  solu- 
tion of  Mrs.  Carville's  story  than  if  we  h,ad  simply 
tried  to  make,  as  INliss  Fraenkel  said,  a  photo-play. 
The  others  laughed  at  my  downcast  countenance. 


54  ALIENS 

"Well,"  I  said,  "you  said  Miss  Fraenkel  had 
tried  them  and  found  them  guilty,  Mac." 

"What  I  meant  was.  Miss  Fraenkel  had  formed 
her  own  opinion  of  the  business." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  have." 

"Now  we  shall  hear  something,"  chirped  Bill. 

"Listen,"  said  Miss  Fraenkel.  "It's  very  likely 
an  assumed  name." 

It  was  our  turn  to  look  bewildered. 

"Yes?"  said  Bill.    "What  then.?" 

"And "  went  on  Miss  Fraenkel,  making  little 

motions  with  her  hands  as  though  she  were  trying 
to  catch  something  that  eluded  her  grasp.  "And — 
oh!  he's  being  held  for  some  game  in  New  York. 
She's  got  away  with  it,  you  see." 

Miss  Fraenkel  waited  for  this  appalling  develop- 
ment to  sink  into  our  minds.  I  don't  think  it  was 
given  to  any  of  us  at  the  moment  to  divine  just 
what  had  happened  to  Miss  Fraenkel.  Even  seven 
years  in  the  country  were  not  sufficient  training  in 
American  psychology  to  realize  it  at  once.  We  sat 
and  looked  at  her,  temporarily  dazed  by  what  we 
took  to  be  a  story  built  upon  exclusive  information. 
And  she  sat  and  looked  at  us,  as  pleased  as  a  child 
at  the  success  of  her  manoeuvre. 

"Why,"  stammered  Bill,  blankly  through  her 
glasses,  "how  do  you  know.^*" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Miss  Fraenkel.  "I  just 
made  it  up,  same's  you."  And  she  included  us  all 
in  a  brilliant  flash  of  her  hazel  eyes. 

We  changed  the  subject  after  that.  In  self- 
defence  we  changed  the  subject,  for  it  was  plain 


ALIENS  55 

that  when  it  came  to  making  photo-plays  we  held 
a  very  poor  hand.  Moreover,  we  saw  that  Miss 
Fraenkel  did  not  and  could  not  take  our  ponderous 
interest  in  Mrs.  Carville  seriously.  To  argue  that 
she  ought  to  was  no  better  logic  than  to  say  that 
since  she  was  crazy  about  Chinese  prints,  she  ought 
to  be  friendly  with  the  Chinese  laundryman  in 
Chestnut  Street.  We  regarded  the  nations  of 
Europe  as  repositories  of  splendid  traditions,  mag- 
nificent even  in  their  decay.  Miss  Fraenkel  re- 
garded them  as  rag-baskets  from  which  the  American 
Eagle  was  picking  a  heterogeneous  mass  of  rubbish, 
rubbish  that  might  possibly,  after  much  screening, 
become  worthy  of  ciwc  privilege. 

The  wisdom  of  our  action  was  proved  by  Miss 
Fraenkel  herself,  for  not  only  did  she  make  no 
further  mention  of  Mrs.  Carville  before  she  rose  to 
go,  but  even  when  I  remarked  (I  escorted  her  to 
her  home)  pointing  to  the  great  lantern  in  the 
Metropolitan  Tower,  twenty  miles  away,  shining 
like  a  star  above  the  horizon,  "that  light  shines 
on  many  things  that  are  hidden  from  us,"  she 
failed  to  apply  the  sententious  reflection  to  her 
own  story,  merely  looking  at  me  with  an  apprecia- 
tive smile.  She  had  forgotten  our  discussion  ut- 
terly, and  I  was  quite  sure  that  unless  we  men- 
tioned it,  she  would  not  refer  to  it  again. 


CHAPTER  V 
He  Comes 

IT  was  the  evening  of  one  of  the  most  perfect 
days  in  an  Indian  summer  of  notable  lovehness. 
'  In  this  refulgent  weather,  to  quote  Emerson, 
who  knew  well  what  he  spoke  of,  "it  was  a 
luxury  to  draw  the  breath  of  life."  Free  equally 
from  the  enervating  heat  and  insects  of  high  sum- 
mer, and  the  numbing  rigour  of  the  Eastern  winter, 
the  days  passed  in  dignified  procession,  calm  and 
temperate,  roseate  with  the  blazing  foliage  of  au- 
tumn, and  gay  with  geraniums  and  marigolds.  On 
our  modest  pergola  there  still  clung  a  few  ruby- 
coloured  grapes,  though  the  leaves  were  scattered; 
and  in  the  beds  about  our  verandah  blue  cornflowers 
and  yellow  nasturtiums  enamelled  the  untidy  carpet 
of  coarse  grasses  that  were  trying  to  choke  them. 
Not  far  away,  down  by  the  Episcopal  Church,  men 
were  playing  tennis  in  flannels  on  the  courts  of 
yellow,  hard-packed  sand.  The  intense  blue  of  an 
Italian  sky  lent  a  factitious  transparency  to  the 
atmosphere,  and  the  tiny  irregular  shadows  that 
indicated  the  colossal  architecture  of  New  York 
seemed  to  float  like  bubbles  in  an  azure  bowl. 
Across  the  street,  a  vacant  plot  of  land,  neglected 
because  of  imperfect  title,  was  cut  diagonally  by  a 
footpath  leading  down  to  Broad  Street,  where,  out  of 
sight  but  not  of  hearing,  trolley-cars  between  Newark 
and  Paterson  thundered  at  uncertain  intervals. 

66 


ALIENS  57 

It  was  our  custom,  as  we  sat  on  our  verandah 
during  these  afternoons,  to  watch  the  gradual  ap- 
pearance of  famiHar  figures  upon  this  path.  We 
knew  that  a  few  moments  after  the  whistle  of  the 
five-twenty  had  sounded  at  the  grade-crossing  down 
in  the  valley,  certain  neighbours  who  commuted  to 
New  York  would  infallibly  rise  into  view  on  this 
path.  There  was  Eckhardt,  who  lived  at  five  hun- 
dred and  nine,  and  spent  the  day  on  the  fourteenth 
floor  of  the  Flatiron  Building.  There  was  Williams, 
immaculate  of  costume,  who  designed  automobile 
bodies  and  had  an  office  on  Broadway.  There  was 
Wederslen,  the  art-critic  of  the  New  York  Daily 
News,  a  man  whom  all  three  of  us  held  in  peculiar 
abhorrence  because  he  persisted  in  ignoring  Mac's 
etchings.  There  was  Arber,  rather  short  of  stature 
and  rather  long  of  lip,  an  Irishman  who,  miraculous 
to  state,  admired  Burns.  There  was  Confield,  an 
Indianian  from  Logansport,  who  had  been  to  Europe 
on  a  vacation  tour  {No.  67  Series  C,  Inclusive  Fare 
$450)  and  invariably  carried  a  grip  plastered  with 
hotel  labels  to  prove  it.  We  had  met  these  men  at 
tennis  and  at  the  Field  Club,  and  in  our  English 
way  esteemed  them.  They  would  come  up,  head- 
first, so  to  speak,  out  of  the  valley,  revealing  them- 
selves step  by  step  until  they  reached  the  street, 
when  they  would  acknowledge  our  salutations  by 
a  lift  of  the  hat  and  a  wave  of  the  evening  paper, 
and  pass  on  to  their  homes.  They  generally  came, 
too,  in  the  order  in  which  I  have  given  them.  Eck- 
hardt was  always  first,  for  he  did  not  smoke,  and 
the  smoking-cars'  on  the  Erie  Road  were  generally 


58  ALIENS 

behind.  And  Confield,  of  course,  was  likely  to  be 
last,  for  he  had  his  bag. . 

It  was  so  on  the  day  of  which  I  speak.  The 
deep  bay  of  the  locomotive  came  up  on  the  still 
autumn  air,  and  a  cloud  of  dazzling  white  vapour 
rose  like  a  balloon  above  the  trees  and  drifted 
slowly  into  thin  curls  and  feathers  against  the 
blue  sky.  It  was,  even  in  this  trifling  detail,  a 
homelike  landscape,  for  Bill  had  told  us  how,  from 
the  square  hall  window  of  High  Wigborough,  you 
could  see  the  white  puffs  of  invisible  trains  on  the 
lonely  little  loopline^from  Wivenhoe  to  Brightling- 
sea. 

A  few  moments,  and  one  by  one,  and  in  the  case 
of  Wederslen  and  Williams  arm-in-arm,  our  neigh- 
bours hove  into  view  out  of  the  valley,  saluted  and 
passed.  We  noted  the  unusually  friendly  attitude 
of  the  two.  What  was  Williams  up  to?  we  won- 
dered. We  knew  that  Williams,  the  ignoble  de- 
signer of  tonneauXy  laboured  under  the  delusion 
that  he  could  paint.  Of  course  he  could  not  paint — 
we  were  all  agreed  upon  that — but  he  had  shown 
us  various  compositions  done  during  vacation  time 
■ — blood-red  boulders  and  glass-green  seas.  Was  it 
possible  that  he  was  convincing  Wederslen  that  he 
could  paint?  We  shuddered  for  Art  as  we  thought 
of  it.  Their  wives  were  not  friendly,  though,  so 
Bill  asserted.    We  placed  our  hopes  for  Art  on  that. 

For  some  moments  after  they  were  gone,  and 
Confield  with  his  bag  had  passed  from  view  down 
the  forest  path,  we  tried  to  contemplate  with 
stoical  indifference  the  prospect  of  seeing  Williams 


ALIENS  59 

hailed  by  the  servile  and  blandiloquent  Wederslen 
as  a  genius.  Had  he  not  said  of  Hooker  that  "he 
was  Hkely,  at  no  distant  date,  to  be  seen  in  all 
the   collections   of   note?     His   rare   skill   with   the 

burin,  his  delicate  feeling  for  nature "  and  so 

on.  Of  course  we  all  esteemed  Hooker  and  were 
glad  to  see  him  make  good;  but  really,  as  Bill  re- 
marked, "A  man  who  said  Hooker  had  a  feeling  for 
nature  would  say  anything."  It  was  like  speaking 
of  Antony  Van  Dyck's  feeling  for  nature.  Hooker's 
Dutch  gardens  and  Italian  ornamental  waters,  his 
cypresses  like  black  spearheads,  his  eighteenth- 
century  precisians  with  their  flowered  waistcoats 
and  high  insteps,  were  as  far  from  nature  as  they 
could  conveniently  get.  So  much  for  Wederslen. 
We  might  have  pursued  the  subject  indefinitely 
had  not  our  attention  been  drawn  abruptly  to  the 
path. 

He  came  uncertainly,  this  new  figure,  pausing 
when  he  was  only  half  revealed,  as  though  in  doubt 
of  his  direction.  He  wore  a  Derby  hat,  and  we 
saw  over  his  arm  a  rubber  mackintosh.  Making 
up  an  obviously  unsettled  mind,  he  abjured  the 
path  and  struck  straight  across  towards  us,  with 
the  evident  intention  of  inquiring  the  way. 

There  are  many  conceits  by  which  men  may 
assert  their  individuality  in  dress,  even  in  these 
days  of  stereotyped  cut.  They  may  adhere  by 
habit  or  desire  to  the  uniform  of  their  class,  they 
may  preserve  their  anonymity  even  to  a  cuff-link, 
yet  in  some  occult  way  we  are  apprised  of  their 
personal   fancy;    we    see   a   last-remaining    vestige 


60  ALIENS 

of  that  high  courage  that  made  theu*  ancestors 
clothe  themselves  in  original  and  astonishing  vest- 
ments. And  it  is  this  fortuitous  difference,  this 
tiny  leak,  one  might  say,  of  their  personality,  that 
stamps  them  finally  as  belonging  to  an  immense 
mediocrity.  It  is  this  subtle  and  microscopic 
change,  a  sixteenth  of  an  inch  in  the  height  of  a 
collar,  a  line  in  the  pattern  of  a  scarf,  a  hair's  breadth 
in  the  disposition  of  a  crease,  that  the  psychologists 
of  the  market-place  call  distinction,  and  labour  in- 
dustriously to  supply. 

But  the  man  who  now  crossed  the  street  and 
stood  before  us  bore  neither  in  his  apparel  nor  in 
his  lineaments  a  single  detail  by  which  he  could 
be  remembered.  In  everything,  from  his  black 
medium-toed  boots  to  his  Derby  hat  of  untarnished 
respectabihty,  from  his  recently-shaven  chin  to  his 
steady  grey-blue  eyes,  he  betrayed  not  the  slightest 
caprice  which  would  enable  an  observer  to  dis- 
tinguish him  from  a  particular  type.  It  was  as 
though  he  had  been  conscious  of  all  this  and  had 
even  sought  to  avoid  the  most  trivial  peculiarities. 
In  height,  in  feature,  in  dress,  he  was  so  ordinary 
that  he  became  extraordinary.  His  intention  to 
be  unnoticed  was  so  obvious  that  it  predicated,  in 
my  own  mind  at  least,  a  character  and  possibly  an 
occupation  out  of  the  common  run. 

"Can  you  tell  me,"  he  began  in  a  voice  that 
gave  no  hint  of  emotion,  "can  you  tell  me  if  this 
is  Van  Diemen's  Avenue?" 

"Yes,"  we  said  all  together,  studying  him  the 
while.     "Yes,  this  is  Van  Diemen's  Avenue." 


ALIENS  61 

"Thanks,"  he  replied,  and  withdrew  his  foot 
from  our  bottom  step. 

It  seemed  as  though  he  was  about  to  depart  and 
leave  us  guessing,  when  he  spoke  again. 

"Perhaps  you  know  the  house  I  want,"  he  said. 
"Carville's  the  name.  I,"  he  added  as  if  in  an 
afterthought,  "am  Mr.  Carville."  And  he  looked 
at  us  gravely,  apparently  unaware  of  the  turmoil  of 
curiosity  which  he  had  aroused. 

Some  one — I  think  it  was  Mac — pointed  to  the 
next  house. 

"That's  it,"  we  managed  to  say. 

For  a  moment  his  eyes  rested  upon  it  casually. 

"Thanks,"  he  said  again,  and  then,  "Much 
obliged."  He  stepped  back  to  the  sidewalk  and 
walked  along  to  the  house.  None  of  us  can  recall 
exactly  what  happened  when  he  approached  his 
door,  for  we  were  all  looking  away  across  the  valley, 
hastily  rearranging  our  chaotic  impressions.  It  is 
to  be  presumed  that  he  knocked  and  was  admitted. 
When  we  glanced  round  a  few  moments  later  he 
was  gone. 

"Great  Scott!"  murmured  Mac,  and  looked  at 
us  in  the  growing  dusk.    Bill  rose  to  get  dinner. 

Throughout  the  meal  we  refrained  from  any 
comment.  Now  that  he  had  materialized,  there 
was  no  reason,  in  the  nature  of  things,  why  we 
should  bother  our  heads  any  more  about  him. 
In  the  most  natural  way  he  had  appeared  and 
innocently  demolished  the  photo-play  romances  we 
had  constructed  about  him.  It  was  a  warning  to 
us  to   avoid  nonsense,   in  future,   when  discussing 


62  ALIENS 

our  neighbours.  Miss  Fraenkel  had  fared  no  bet- 
ter. Evidently  he  was  not  "held"  for  something 
with  which  his  wife  had  "got  away."  We  were  all 
ridiculously  wrong  and  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
ourselves.  And  so  we  were;  avoiding  mention  of 
him,  and  devoting  our  attention  to  the  fish,  for  it 
was  Friday,  and  we  kept  it  religiously. 

But  as  I  drank  my  coffee  and  listened  to  that 
exquisitely  mournful  barcarolle  from  the  Tales  of 
Hoffmann,  the  whole  episode  took  on  a  different 
aspect.  I  perceived,  as  Schopenhauer  had  per- 
ceived a  hundred  years  before  me,  that  our  first 
judgment  upon  a  man  or  principle  is  probably  the 
most  correct.  I  saw  that  I  had  been  carried  away 
by  logic  and  numbers  and  had  discounted  my  first 
impression.  From  the  angle  at  which  I  now  re- 
garded Mr.  Carville  I  could  see  that,  after  all,  his 
case  presented  certain  details  which  we  could  not 
as  yet  account  for.  Unfamiliar  as  I  was  with  the 
life  of  the  sea,  I  felt  instinctively  that  men  who  had 
their  business  in  great  waters  would  bear  upon  their 
persons  indications  of  their  calling,  some  sign  which 
would  catch  one's  imagination  and  assist  one  to  vis- 
ualize their  collective  existence.  But  Mr.  Carville 
had  nothing.  I  passed  in  mental  review  the  details 
of  his  appearance,  his  blue  serge  suit,  his  dark  green 
tie,  his  greying  moustache,  clipped  short  in  a  fashion 
that  might  be  American,  English,  French  or  Ger- 
man. His  voice  had  been  quiet  and  deferential,  but 
by  no  means  genteel;  nor  had  it  any  hint  of  the 
roystering  joviality  of  a  sailor.  More  than  anything 
else  his  gait,  in  its  sedate  unobtrusiveness,  seemed  to 


ALIENS  63 

me  utterly  at  variance  with  the  rolhng  swagger 
which  we  conventionally  associate  with  seamen. 

Grant,  however,  I  said  to  myself,  that  he  looks  a 
truth-telling  man.  Grant  that  he  is,  as  his  children 
said,  at  sea.  Surely  there  is  something  romantic 
in  this  quiet-eyed  man  being  married  to  such  a 
woman  as  Mrs.  Carville!  Surely  a  man  whose 
children  bear  names  so  bright  on  the  rolls  of  fame 
must  have  something  in  him  worthy  of  admiration! 
As  the  barcarolle  swelled  and  died  away,  I  felt  this 
conviction  growing  within  me.  I  felt  certain  that 
so  far  from  demolishing  the  real  mystery,  Mr. 
Carville  had  only  brought  it  into  focus.  We  had 
not  seen  it  before.  And  it  promised  to  be  a  mys- 
tery on  a  higher  plane  than  the  rather  sordid  affair 
we  had  been  postulating. 

I  decided  to  sleep  on  my  conclusions,  however, 
before  broaching  the  matter  to  my  friends,  and 
having  some  work  to  finish  for  the  morning's  mail, 
I  went  back  to  my  desk.  For  three  hours  or  so  I 
worked  steadily,  page  after  page  slipping  to  the 
floor  as  I  finished  them.  My  friends  did  not  dis- 
turb me,  and  when  I  ascended  to  the  studio  for  a 
"crack"  before  retiring,  I  found  the  big  room  in 
darkness.  So!  I  mused,  and  descended.  A  brilliant 
moon  threw  a  dense  black  shadow  in  front  of  the 
house.  The  porch  was  in  gloom,  but  the  street 
was  nearly  as  bright  as  day.  I  stood  on  the  veran- 
dah for  a  few  minutes,  filling  a  pipe  and  looking 
across  at  the  Metropolitan  light  where  it  shone 
serenely  on  the  horizon.  As  I  struck  a  match  I 
became  aware  of  a  figure  moving  slowly  in  front 


64  ALIENS 

of  the  Carvllle  house,  up  and  down  the  gravel  walk 
that  ran  below  their  verandah.  I  threw  away  my 
match  and  stepped  down  into  the  moonlight,  in- 
tending to  stroll  up  and  down  for  a  while  on  the 
flags  of  the  sidewalk.  I  often  find  that  if  I ,  retire 
immediately  from  a  burst  of  writing  I  am  unable 
to  sleep  for  several  hours.  The  pendulum  of  the 
mind  should  be  brought  to  rest  quietly  and  without 
shock. 

I  was  not  surprised  when  the  figure  in  the  shadow 
stepped  out  into  the  moonlight  as  I  approached. 
What  startled  me  was  the  undoubted  resemblance 
to  myself  in  figure  and  mass.  We  were  both  small 
men.  Perhaps  there  was  a  shade  more  shoulder- 
breadth  on  his  side  than  mine,  but  there  was  the 
same  slight  droop,  the  same  negligible  tendency  to 
stoutness.  As  I  turned  the  matter  over  in  my  mind 
we  came  face  to  face. 

"Good  evening,"  we  said  simultaneously.  He 
waved  his  pipe,  a  corn  cob,  towards  the  east.  "New 
York!"  he  remarked,  and  we  stood  side  by  side  for 
a  moment  in  silence.  The  simple  observation  seemed 
to  me  to  imply  a  susceptibility  to  the  sublimity  of 
the  prospect  that  we  had  not  discovered  to  any  ex- 
tent among  our  other  neighbours.  To  them,  ap- 
parently, New  York  was  no  more  than  London  is  to 
Hampstead;  they  had  the  suburban  sentiment  in  an 
acute  form.  Nevertheless  I  was  somewhat  at  a 
loss  to  continue  our  conversation.  It  seemed  foolish 
to  neglect  such  a  heaven-directed  opportunity  to 
meet  this  man  on  his  own  ground  and  obtain  some 
light  upon  his  career.    How  should  I  begin?    Should 


ALIENS  65 

I  say  to  him,  "Look  here,  it  is  very  nice,  no  doubt; 
but  we,  your  neighbours,  are  simply  crazy  to  know 
•who  and  what  you  are?"  That  might  strike  him  in 
various  ways.  He  might  take  offence,  and  one 
could  not  blame  him.  He  might  see  humour  in  it, 
and  a  proof  of  the  contemptible  meanness  of  human 
nature.  I  decided  that  I  lacked  courage  to  blurt 
out  my  desire  that  way.  He  was  so  very  much  like 
myself  that  I  could  not  rid  myself  of  the  notion 
that  he  might  prefer  a  milder  way  of  approach. 
And  as  I  sorted  out  my  stock  of  diplomacy  he  spoke 
of  the  matter  himself. 

"You  are  a  seaman,  I  understand .f'"  I  remarked. 
He  gave  me  a  quick  glance. 

"I  go  to  sea,"  he  replied,  "if  that  is  what  you 
mean.  Yes,  in  the  legal  phrase  of  the  Board  of 
Trade,  I'm  a  seaman,  and  my  number  is  Three  nine 
five,  eight  nine  three."  He  laughed  shortly  and  con- 
tinued to  look  out  towards  New  York. 

"A  picturesque  life,"  I  hazarded,  regretting  my 
total  ignorance  of  it.  Again  he  looked  at  me  and 
laughed. 

"You  think  so?"  he  queried.    "You  think  so?" 

"I  speak  from  book  knowledge  only,"  I  said. 
"It  is  usually  described  in  those  terms."  We  began 
to  walk  to  and  fro. 

"Well,"  he  admitted  unexpectedly,  "and  so  it  is. 
I  don't  doubt  that  to  anyone  just  looking  at  it,  you 
understand,  it  is  as  you  say,  'picturesque.'  But 
when  you  have  a  number  like  Three  nine  five,  eight 
nine  three,  you  have  another  view  of  it." 

"You  have  been  for  a  long  voyage?" 


66  ALIENS 

**0h  no,"  he  said;  "Mediterranean  and  back, 
that's  all." 

I  began  to  realize  something  of  the  man  from 
this.  I  had  no  knowledge  of  the  sea,  but  I  certainly 
had  a  mind  trained  by  years  of  observation  and 
reflection  to  deduce  certain  definite  data  affecting 
human  nature.  And  I  realized  dimly  that  a  man 
who  regarded  a  run  round  the  Mediterranean  and 
back  across  the  Atlantic  as  a  trivial  episode  scarcely 
worthy  of  mention,  might  have  views  on  Hterature 
and  art  radically  at  variance  with  my  own. 

"I  should  have  thought,"  I  remarked,  "that  you 
would  have  made  your  home  there  rather  than 
here." 

"There's  some  who  do,"  he  said.  "Lots  of  the 
Anchor  Line  men  do.  But  personally  I'd  rather  be 
here." 

"It  is  very  like  England,"  I  agreed,  as  he  broke 
in. 

"Sure,"  he  said.  "I  was  just  thinking  as  I  came 
up  the  hill.  I  come  from  Hertfordshire  myself. 
Very  like  the  Northern  Heights." 

"We  always  think,"  I  answered,  "that  it  is  like 
Essex." 

He  pondered  for  a  moment,  enjoying  his  pipe. 

"Well,  it  is,"  he  decided.  "You  mean  looking 
over  Staten  Island  to  the  sea?  Yes,  only  they're 
busier  here  than  along  Mersea  Flats,  eh?  Oh  yes, 
I  used  to  know  that  part  when  I  was  a  boy.  There 
isn't  much  between  Chipping  Barnet  and  Hamford 
Water  that  I  didn't  know  in  those  days.'* 

"You  will  go  back  some  day.?"   I  said  as  we 


ALIENS  67 

turned.  A  change  came  over  his  face,  and  he  put 
his  hand  to  his  chin. 

"No,"  he  said.  "I'll  never  go  back  there.  I'm 
here" — he  waved  his  pipe — "for  keeps." 

I  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"Why?"  I  said,  a  little  indignantly.  "Are  you 
not  an  Englishman?" 

i  For  a  moment  he  did  not  reply  to  the  blunt 
question,  but  looked  down  at  the  flags.  His  feet 
were  cased  in  red  velvet  slippers,  I  noticed,  and 
they  struck  me  as  quite  indescribably  bizarre  in  the 
moonlight.  His  hesitation  was  too  ominous,  heavy 
with  unimaginable  complexities.  His  voice  was 
muffled  when  he  spoke. 

"No,"  he  said.    "I'm— an  alien." 

At  first  I  was  impressed  by  the  tone  more  than 
the  words.  It  was  mournful,  with  a  streak  of  satis- 
faction in  his  condition  that  I  felt  was  assumed. 

"You  mean,"  I  said  at  last,  "tiiat  you  will 
take  out  papers?" 

He  looked  at  me  queerly. 
i  "How  long  would  it  take,"  he  inquired  with  a 
smile,  "to  put  in  five  years'  residence,  when  I'm 
in  the  country  about  three  days  every  two  months? 
No,  I  don't  think  I'll  bother  about  papers.  When 
I  say  I'm  here  for  keeps,  I  mean  those  belonging 
to  me." 

"There  is  a  question  I  would  like  to  ask  you,"  I 
said,  tentatively. 

"I  shall  be  very  glad  to  answer  it  if  I  can,"  he 
replied. 
>  "It  refers  to  your  little  boys." 


68  ALIENS 

"Why,"  he  broke  in,  "they  haven't  been  annoy- 
ing you,  have  they?  I  hope  they  haven't  done 
that!" 

"Not  at  all.  I  merely  had  a  curiosity  to  know 
why  they  bear  such  unusual  names." 

He  smiled. 

"They  told  you  their  names,  did  they.'*" 

"They  were  good  enough  to  commend  me  for 
the  way  I  played  Indian,"  I  explained,  and  he  gave 
me  another  of  his  quick  comprehensive  glances. 

"It's  rather  a  long  story  you've  asked  for,"  he 
said. 

"I  am  interested  in  stories,"  I  put  in. 

"Beppo  said  you  made  pictures,"  he  mused. 

"In  words,"  I  added. 

He  paused  again.  It  seemed  to  be  a  part  of  his 
mode  of  thinking,  this  occasional  parenthesis  of 
silence.  It  was  almost  as  though  the  man  were 
leading  me  down  a  vast  and  dimly-lit  corridor, 
laying  his  hand  at  times  on  various  doors,  and  then 
withdrawing  it,  from  some  mysterious  motive,  and 
continuing  upon  his  way. 

"An  author.?"  he  said,  half  to  himself.    "Ah!" 

It  was  borne  in  upon  me  that  neither  a  wide 
experience  in  common  everyday  psychology,  nor 
even  an  exhaustive  knowledge  of  sea-life  could 
adequately  cope  with  the  bewildering  emotions 
implicit  in  that  "Ah!"  In  its  way  it  was  the  most 
remarkable  thing  he  had  said. 

"Yes,  if  you  like,"  I  rephed.  "I  am  profession- 
ally interested  in  stories." 

He  felt  in  his  pocket  for  matches  and  as  the 


ALIENS  69 

flame  spurted  before  his  face  I  saw  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  betrayed  a  pucker  of  amusement.  I 
suddenly  felt  the  absurdity  of  my  position.  I  had 
been  led  to  expose  myself  to  ridicule.  I  might  have 
expected  it  after  the  behaviour  of  his  children. 

For  a  moment  I  was  warm! 

"You  see,'*  he  said,  looking  at  his  watch,  "it's 
this  way.  I'm  not  a  very  good  hand  at  yarns,  but 
if  you  like  I'll  step  along  to-morrow  some  time  and 
have  a  talk.  I  don't  go  back  to  the  ship  till  Sunday 
night." 

"We  shall  be  charmed,"  I  said.  "Come  in  to 
tea." 

"All  right,"  he  answered.  "I  will.  It  must  be 
nearly  eight  bells,  I  should  think,  twelve  o'clock." 

I  pointed  to  the  Metropolitan  Light,  glowing  a 
deep  red.    He  regarded  it  with  interest. 

"Think  o'  that!"  he  said,  absently.  "Just  think 
o'  that.  Eight  bells!"  He  roused  himself.  "Well, 
good-night  to  you,  sir.  I  must  turn  in.  I  always 
sleep  best  in  the  Middle  Watch." 

And  he  laughed  as  though  at  some  flash  of  mem- 
cry  and  made  his  way  into  the  darkened  house. 


CHAPTER  VI 

He  Begins  His  Tale 

THE  work  upon  which  I  had  been  engaged 
during  the  evening  did  not  engross  my  mind 
that  night  when  I  retired.  Over  and  over 
again  I  endeavoured  to  measure  the  distance 
I  had  advanced  in  knowledge  of  my  neighbour  since 
I  stepped  out  into  the  moonhght.  I  wished  to  reahze 
the  exact  advantage  I  would  hold  over  Mac  and 
Bill  when  we  met  next  morning  at  breakfast.  And 
that  was  just  what  I  found  myself  unable  to  do. 
Both  of  my  friends  were  shrewd  enough  to  smile  if 
I  trotted  out  the  startling  information  that  he  came 
from  Hertfordshire.  Of  course,  they  would  say,  he 
must  come  from  somewhere.  And  if  I  remarked  he 
had  been  in  the  Mediterranean,  they  would  fail  to 
see  anything  amazing  in  a  sailor  having  been  in  the 
Mediterranean.  And  then,  how  was  I  to  convey 
to  them  the  extraordinary  impression  he  had  made 
upon  me  by  the  simple  statement  that  he  was  an 
alien?  Why,  they  would  exclaim,  were  not  we 
aliens  too?  Were  not  fifty  per  cent  of  our  ac- 
quaintances in  the  United  States  aliens?  No,  it 
was  impossible.  They  would  not  understand.  And 
if  they  would  not  understand  that,  how  could  they 
be  expected  to  appreciate  in  all  its  puzzling  sim- 
plicity his  ejaculation:  "An  author?    Ah!" 

It  occurred  to  me  with  some  bitterness  that  a 
brutal  editor  in  San  Francisco  had  once  complained 

70 


ALIENS  71 

of  my  inability  to  interview  people  with  any  suc- 
cess. "God  A'mighty!  Why  the  h — 1  didn't  you 
aski  man!"  And  to  tell  the  truth,  I  am  not  de- 
signed by  nature  for  the  cut-throat  business  of  in- 
terviewing. To  stand  before  a  stranger,  note-book 
in  hand,  and  pry  into  his  personal  record,  always 
seems  to  me  only  a  form  of  infamy  midway  between 
blackmail  and  burglary.  There  is  to  me  something 
in  any  man's  personality  that  is  sacred,  something 
before  which  there  should  be  a  veil,  never  to  be 
drawn  aside  save  in  secret  places.  An  effete  whim, 
no  doubt.  At  any  rate  it  explained  why  I  had 
enjoyed  no  success  as  an  interviewer,  why  I  had 
come  away  from  Mr.  Carville  without  extracting 
from  him  his  age,  his  income,  his  position,  the 
names  of  his  employers,  his  ship,  his  tailor  or  his 
God.  Nothing  of  all  this  I  knew,  so  ineptly  had  I 
managed  my  chances  to  obtain  it.  And  yet  I  felt 
that,  even  if  I  did  not  possess  any  concrete  morsel 
of  exciting  news,  I  had  discovered  not  only  that  he 
had  a  story,  but  that  he  was  willing  to  tell  it.  And 
as  I  fell  asleep  a  conviction  came  to  me  that  whatever 
his  story  might  be,  however  sordid  or  romantic,  I 
would  pass  no  judgment  upon  it  until  I  perceived 
in  its  genuine  significance,  the  chapter  that  lay  be- 
hind that  strange  utterance,  "An  author?    Ah!" 


The  next  morning  I  slept  late,  until  past  seven 
in  fact.  It  had  ever  been  an  axiom  with  us  that 
the  indolence  attributed  to  the  "artistic  tempera- 
ment"   was    a   foolish   tradition.     Creative   power 


72  ALIENS 

undoubtedly  comes  late  in  the  day  and  in  the 
still  night-watches;  often  I  had  planned  a  whole 
book  while  in  bed;  but  there  are  many  things  to  do 
in  literature  and  art  besides  creation — research, 
reading,  preparing  of  palettes,  writing  of  letters  and 
so  on,  that  can  be  better  done  early.  So  we  break- 
fasted at  haK  after  seven  as  a  rule.  I  managed  to 
bathe  and  shave  before  Mac's  reveille  sounded  on 
the  piano. 

As  I  opened  my  napkin  I  saw  that  Bill  had  some- 
thing of  importance  to  impart,  and  it  came  out  at 
once. 

"He's  mending  the  fence!"  she  exclaimed,  passing 
the  toast. 

"And  going  about  it  as  though  he  knew  what  he 
was  doing,"  added  Mac. 

I  was  glad  of  this  discovery  of  theirs.  It  would 
enable  me  to  introduce  my  own  contribution  mod- 
estly, yet  with  effect. 

"I  wonder,"  I  said,  "if  he  would  approve  of  that 
tree  being  cut  down."  Mac  stirred  in  his  chair.  The 
daily  spectacle  of  those  two  little  boys  hacking  slivers 
from  the  prostrate  tree  had  been  very  trying  to  him. 

"I  judge  not,"  he  said  with  energy.  "A  man 
who " 

"I  wish  we  knew  the  exact  relations  between 
them,"  I  interrupted.  "I  mean,  whether  they  quar- 
rel at  all." 

"Of  course  they  do,"  said  Bill  without  thinking. 
"All  married  people  do — at  times." 

Her  husband  looked  down  his  nose  into  his  egg. 
I  smiled. 


ALIENS  73 

"True,  since  you  say  it,"  I  replied,  "but  you 
must  remember  that  just  as  no  two  people  look 
exactly  alike,  so  no  two  couples  live  on  exactly  the 
same  terms.    Just  as " 

"Oh,  what  do  you  know  about  it?"  said  Bill. 
"Trust  a  bachelor  to  lay  down  the  law." 

"Those  who  look  on — ^you  know,"  I  protested. 

"That  isn't  true  in  regard  to  marriage,"  she  re- 
torted, "because  unless  you  are  married  you  donH 
look  on  at  all,  see?" 

I  saw. 

"I  am  going  to  speak  to  him  after  breakfast," 
announced  Mac.  "He  seems  a  very  decent  sort  of 
chap.    I  wonder  what  he  is  at  sea." 

"I  had  quite  a  little  chat  with  him  last  night,"  I 
began. 

"You  did!"  they  exclaimed.  I  nodded,  enjoying 
their  surprise. 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "I  found  you  were  gone  to  bed 
when  I  finished,  and  so  I  went  out  on  the  flags  for 
a  short  walk.  He  was  out  there  doing  the  same 
thing." 

"Go  on!"  said  Bill. 

"He  didn't  say  anything  about  mending  the 
fence,"  I  remarked. 

I    "Oh  goodness!     Tell  us  what  he  did  say,"  she 
implored. 

"Well,  not  much.  He  comes  from  Hertford- 
shire." 

"He's  English  then!  I  thought  so,"  said  Mac, 
relieved. 

"He  said  No,"  I  answered.     "That  was  one  of     ' 


74  ALIENS 

the  most  curious  remarks  he  made.     He  said  he 
was  an  alien." 

"Did  he,  by  Jove!  So  he  is;  but  it's  a  very 
strange  thing  to  say,"  said  Mac.  Bill  regarded  me 
with  interest. 

^  "He's  going  to  keep  us  guessing,"  she  remarked, 
dolefully. 

"No,"  I  said,  taking  another  piece  of  toast.  "He 
accepted  my  invitation  to  tea  this  afternoon,  and  he 
is  going  to  tell  us  about  himself." 

After  all  I  had  overlooked  my  most  telling  item. 
I  might  have  known  that  the  fact  of  his  visit  would 
prove  more  thrilHng  than  any  gossip  coming  second- 
hand from  me.  They  wished  to  speak  with  him 
again,  this  man  who  had  come  upon  us  so  quietly 
yet  so  dramatically.  We  had  all  become  sufficiently 
American  to  desire  "a  good  look  at  him."  And 
when  Americans  take  a  good  look  at  you  they  go 
over  you  with  a  fine  tooth  comb.  They  see  every- 
thing, from  a  knot  in  your  bootlace  to  the  gold- 
filling  in  your  teeth.  My  friends  "sat  up"  as  I 
made  my  announcement.  I  felt  that,  in  editorial 
parlance,  I  had  made  a  scoop. 

"Bully!"  said  Mac,  and  Bill,  her  chin  on  her 
hand,  looked  across  at  me  with  approval.  After 
all,  again,  my  lack  of  enterprise  in  interrogating 
Mr.  Carville  the  night  before  was  bearing  fruit.  It 
was  crediting  me  with  a  sportsmanlike  reluctance 
to  steal  a  march  on  my  friends.  I  had,  unconsciously 
done  what  we  English  call  "the  right  thing."  I 
had  invited  him  to  tea.  Suddenly  Bill's  eyes  be- 
came anxious. 


ALIENS  75 

"Are  they  both  coming?"  she  asked. 

"I— I  don't  think  so,"  I  faltered.  "I  can't  say 
exactly  why,  but  I  don't  think  so.  You  see,"  I 
went  on,  "the  reason  he  offered  to  tell  me  about 
himself  was  a  question  of  mine  about  his  children. 
I  said  their  names  were  curious  enough  to  strike 
anyone.  He  said  it  was  a  long  story.  And  he 
offered  to  step  over  himself.  Now,"  I  felt  more 
certain  of  myself  now,  "the  story  of  his  children's 
names  may  take  two  directions.  If  he  named  them 
he  will  not  want  his  wife  to  hear  him  tell  about  it. 
If  she  named  them,  which  is  not  likely,  why,  he 
would  scarcely  take  the  trouble  to  come  over  and 
tell  strangers  about  it,  would  he?" 
I    "I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Bill. 

"So  am  I,"  I  agreed.  "I  think  it  is  best  to  get 
acquainted  with  families  on  the  instalment  plan, 
don't  you?" 

"Rather!"  said  Bill,  and  held  out  her  hand  for 
my  cup. 

It  was  a  perfect  morning,  clear  and  crisp,  and 
the  long  sunlit  vista  of  Van  Diemen's  Avenue 
tempted  us  sorely.  We  went  through  our  daily 
struggle.  Those  people  who  work  by  rote,  who 
are  herded  in  offices  and  factories,  and  who  are 
compelled  by  the  laws  of  their  industries  to  remain 
at  their  posts  whether  the  sun  shines  or  not,  often 
regard  the  lives  of  free  lances  like  us  as  merely 
agreeable  holidays;  they  would  certainly  be  some- 
what staggered  to  find  the  enormous  will-power 
involved  in  resisting  the  calls  of  the  open  road. 
There  are  so  many  subtle  arguments  in  favour  of 


76  ALIENS 

abandoning  the  desk  for  just  once.  "It  is  such  a 
glorious  day,  it  is  a  shame  to  be  indoors,"  "one's 
head  is  muggy;  a  good  walk  will  clear  the  ideas," 
or  "it  doesn't  do  to  stick  at  it  too  long,  you  know: 
give  it  a  rest."  (This  when  you  have  not  written 
a  line  for  a  week!)  And  so  on.  We  knew  them 
all,  these  specious  lures  to  idleness,  and  strangled 
them  with  a  firm  hand  each  morning  after  breakfast. 
Well  we  knew  that  on  a  dark  dismal  rainy  day 
we  would  hear  the  Tempter  saying,  "Who  could 
work  on  a  day  like  this.?^  Leave  it  until  the  sun 
shines  in  the  window.  Try  that  interesting  novel 
you  brought  home.  After  all,  you  know,  you  must 
read  to  see  how  the  accepted  masters  do  it.  Read 
for  technique   ..." 

By  nine  o'clock  we  would  all  be  at  work. 

So  it  was  on  this  bright  morning  in  October.  I 
remember  being  rather  struck  with  the  excellence 
of  the  work  of  the  preceding  evening.  It  was  not 
great  work,  you  may  say,  not  by  any  means  in 
the  category  of  immortal  classics.  It  was  not 
even  signed,  being  an  appreciation  of  a  certain 
proprietary  article  in  common  use  and  extensively 
advertised.  There  was  to  me  a  quite  indescribable 
humour  in  the  fact  that  this  essay  in  admiration 
was  eventually  published  in  French,  German,  Swed- 
ish and  Polish,  running  into  a  six-figure  issue,  while 
my  last  novel,  a  sincere  piece  of  literature,  hung 
fire,  so  to  speak,  and  never  got  beyond  the  pub- 
Hsher's  preliminary  forecast  of  a  thousand  copies. 
Was  I  not  angry?  Far  from  it.  I  was  no  puling 
imdergraduate  with  a  thin  broad-margined  book  of 


ALIENS  77 

verse  to  sell.  The  public  was  at  perfect  liberty  to 
buy  what  it  pleased.  If  they  wanted  my  work,  the 
work  I  loved  and  toiled  to  make  as  perfect  as  pos- 
sible, they  would  get  it,  all  in  good  time.  For  the 
present  I  was  content  to  wait  and  do  the  thing 
which  could  be  translated  into  Swedish  and  Polish, 
into  dollars  cash.  It  is  customary,  I  know,  to  rail 
at  the  American  public,  to  accuse  them  of  a  material 
mania.  An  artist  is  better  employed,  in  my  humble 
view,  in  trying  to  understand  them,  for  believe  me, 
they  are  not  so  vile  as  the  precious  litterateurs  and 
others  would  have  us  believe.  Bitterness  is  no 
preparation  for  sympathetic  study.  And  without 
sympathy  our  works,  however  clever  and  lovely,  are 
but  Dead  Sea  apples,  crumbling  to  ashes  at  the 
touch  of  a  human  finger. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  we  had  arrived  at 
this  way  of  thinking  by  a  sudden  leap.  Again, 
far  from  it!  My  friend  and  I  had  been  under- 
graduates, and  very  proud  of  ourselves  into  the 
bargain,  long  ago  in  England.  But  we  had  travelled 
since  then,  in  more  senses  than  one.  We  had 
known  comfort  and  we  had  known  the  mute  im- 
pressive numbness  of  despair.  We  had  made 
"scoops"  at  times  and  celebrated  them  with  joyous 
junketings.  Once  we  had  dined  at  Delmonico's,  a 
meal  of  which  the  memory  is  still  an  absurd  chaos. 
We  had,  moreover,  confronted  America  with  a 
blank  wall  of  unyielding  British  prejudice.  We 
had  entrenched  ourselves  behind  our  conception  of 
the  thing  to  do  and  stupidly  refused  to  do  anything 
else.    And  we  had  been  beaten  to  our  knees.    For  it 


78  -ALIENS 

meant  eventually  either  submission  or  flight.  And 
we  never  had  any  intention  of  flight.  We  had 
fixed  it  firmly  in  our  minds  that  we  would  return 
triumphant  to  England,  some  day  as  yet  far  off. 
We  were  ahens,  yes;  but  we  meant  to  win  through 
at  last,  to  make  our  dream  come  true;  our  dream  of  a 
cottage,  w^th  honeysuckle  and  roses,  "far  from  the 
madding  crowd." 

And  so  we  realized  at  length  that,  after  all,  the 
country  was  there  before  us;  that  they  had  not 
asked  us  to  come;  that  we  might  as  well  do  things 
the  way  they  wanted.  All  this  was  sound  physic 
for  us.  It  made  us,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word, 
cosmopolitan,  made  us  broad  in  culture  and  stimu- 
lated that  deep  human  sympathy  and  understanding 
which  lay  at  the  root  of  that  impatience  with  which 
we  awaited  the  story  of  our  neighbour. 

I  was  typing  a  letter  about  three  o'clock  when 
I  heard  Mac's  quick  step  on  the  stairs  and  the 
opening  of  the  door.  It  is  his  custom  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  his  view  of  the  path  from  the  studio 
window  to  forestall  the  postman,  and  I  took  no 
further  notice  until  I  heard  the  hum  of  conversation. 
And  so  I  was  the  last  to  appear. 

He  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  our  room,  his 
back  to  me,  his  Derby  hat  in  his  hand,  looking 
curiously  about  the  walls.  I  saw  his  glance  held 
for  a  moment  by  the  old  English  clock  with  its 
swinging  pendulum  and  weights.  It  passed  on  to 
the  chimney-piece  loaded  with  antique  silver,  bizarre 
brasses,  candle-snuffers  and  snuff-boxes.  It  moved 
over  to  the  bust  of  Bill  that  Von  Roon  had  given 


ALIENS  79 

her  when  she  was  married,  a  miracle  of  cunningly- 
arranged  shadows.  It  fell  away  from  water  colour 
and  etching  without  hint  of  ulterior  interest,  and 
came  to  rest  upon  the  book-shelves.  There  was 
more  than  politeness  in  his  glance  at  the  books, 
more  than  mere  curiosity.  There  was,  plainly 
enough,  connoisseurship.  In  the  flicker  of  an  eyelid 
you  can  tell  it.  He  turned  to  meet  me  as  I  entered 
the  room, 

"I'm  glad  you've  come,"  I  said,  shaking  hands. 
His  clasp  was  firm,  almost  athletic.  "We  tea  at 
four,  but  I  don't  think  I  told  you  that." 

"No,"  he  said,  "you  didn't.  I  always  have  tea 
at  three  and  it  didn't  occur  to  me  that  the  custom 
might  be  different." 

"Don't  apologize,"  said  Bill.  "It  only  takes  a 
minute  to  make.    Do  you  like  it  strong?" 

He  smiled. 

"It's  the  only  way  I  get  it,  at  sea,"  he  said. 
"Strong!    Boiled  would  be  a  better  word  for  it." 

"We  like  it  strong,"  said  Mac.  "Sit  down  please. 
Here,  I'll  take  your  hat." 

He  sank  back  in  a  chair  and  looked  about  him. 
For  the  first  time  we  saw  him  without  a  hat.  A 
wide  head,  full  over  the  temples,  and  with  thinning 
hair  on  the  brow,  it  was  in  no  wise  unusual.  The 
head  of  a  professional  man,  shall  I  say.'*  His  hands 
lay  palm  downward  on  the  arms  of  the  chair,  the 
knuckles  white,  the  broad  flat  nails  imperfectly 
manicured. 

"You've  got  a  snug  little  place  here,"  he  re- 
marked.    "A  very  snug  little  place.     It's  very  old 


80  ALIENS 

fashioned.  I  got  quite  a  start  when  I  stepped  into 
— into  the  room  from  the  street.  Like  the  cottages 
in  England.    Art  curtains,  too!" 

The  tea  came  in  then,  and  Bill  offered  him  a  cup. 
I  think  I  was  a  little  disappointed  in  his  remarks. 
They  were  like  his  first  impression  on  me  the  day 
before,  so  commonplace,  so  laboriously  undistin- 
guished that  again  the  conviction  was  forced  upon 
me  that  it  was  a  pose.  Had  I  expected  too  much? 
Was  he  merely  a  self-satisfied  egoist,  clever  enough 
to  perceive  our  interest  and  impose  upon  it.'^  Bill 
endeavoured  to  clear  the  air.  The  mention  of  "art 
curtains"  always  made  Mac  restive. 

"Do  you  like  pictures.^^"  she  asked. 

He  gave  her  one  of  his  quick  glances. 
■  "Some,"  he  replied.  "I  believe,  if  I'd  been 
taught,  that  I  could  have  done  something  in  that 
line,"  and  he  pointed  with  his  saucer  towards  a 
water-colour,  a  drawing  of  the  Golden  Gate  from 
Russian  Hill. 

I  hardly  knew  what  to  make  of  this  new  develop- 
ment. I  really  did  not  believe  he  had  looked  at  it. 
Moreover  the  drawing  was  not  clamant  with  noisy 
daubs  to  attract  the  attention.  It  was  not  even 
recognizable  as  a  view  of  the  Golden  Gate.  It  was 
a  study  of  colour-combination,  in  an  unusually  high 
key,  of  interest  to  artists,  but  not  to  the  public. 
Only  the  cognoscenti  had  remarked  that  picture 
before. 

"You  like  it?"  I  said,  taking  it  down  and  handing 
it  to  him. 
"Ah!"  he  said,  setting  his  cup  and  saucer  on  the 


ALIENS  81 

floor.  "Yes,  that's  it,  that's  it."  He  studied  it. 
"That's  what  I  should  have  liked  to  tackle.  Sugar- 
plums, eh.''" 

We  looked  at  him  in  astonishment,  and  he  as- 
sumed an  attitude  of  apology. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  he  said.  "What  I  meant  was 
it  reminded  me  of  old  Turner,  you  know,  messing 
about  with  coloured  sugar-plums." 

"A  colour-scheme?"  said  Mac,  light  dawning  in 
his  puzzled  face. 

"That's  it,  that's  the  word:  colour-scheme,"  said 
Mr.  Carville.  "I'd  forgotten  the  word."  And  he 
handed  the  drawing  back.  "You  wonder  at  a  sea- 
faring man  coming  out  here  to  live?" 

"It's  a  very  healthy  district,"  I  suggested. 

"Mrs.  Carville  don't  like  New  York,  that's  all," 
he  said,  simply.  "Personally,  I  shouldn't  have 
bothered.    But  she's  quite  right." 

"I  should  think  it  was  better  for  the  children 
too,"  said  Bill. 

He  nodded  vigorously,  packing  the  tobacco  into 
his  pipe. 

"Fresh  air,"  said  Mac,  who  slept  out  on  the 
porch  half  the  year. 

"Oh  there's  plenty  of  fresh  air  in  Atlantic  Ave- 
nue," he  said.  "I  had  something  else  in  mind." 
He  looked  thoughtful,  and  then  his  face  lighted  up 
with  an  extremely  vivid  indignation.  It  died  away 
again  in  a  moment,  but  it  transfigured  him.  "Au- 
tomobiles," he  added. 

We  nodded,  understanding  him  perfectly.  We 
had  seen  them,  in  New  York  as  in  Brooklyn,  career- 


82  ALIENS 

ing  at  maniacal  speed  among  the  children  at  play. 
Bill,  who  loved  children  almost  as  much  as  flowers, 
had  come  in  one  day  in  Lexington  Avenue,  white 
and  sick,  and  told  us  brokenly  of  something  she 
had  seen.  So  we  nodded  and  he,  seeing  that  we 
understood,  said  no  more. 

"Have  you  hved  in  America  long.'*"  I  inquired. 

"Both  the  kids  were  born  here,"  he  replied. 
"Yes,  that's  nearly  eight  years  since  we  came.  You 
see — but  it's  a  long  story.  I  don't  know  whether 
you'd  be  interested " 

Bill  rose. 

"Let  us  go  outside,"  she  said.  "It's  beautifully 
warm." 

We  went  out. 

"You  must  take  the  Fourth  Chair,"  said  Bill, 
looking  at  us. 

We  explained  to  him  the  legend  of  the  Fourth 
Chair. 

"You  see,"  I  added,  "we  were  expecting  you. 
There  is  fate  in  this." 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  quietly  looking  across  the 
valley,  as  though  pondering  something. 

"I  think  I  might  as  well  begin  at  the  beginning," 
he  said  at  last,  "and  work  up  to  the  kids'  names 
gradually.  Though  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  could  tell 
you  in  two  words  the  reasons  for  giving  them  such 
un-English  names,  it  wouldn't  explain  how  I  feel. 
And  that  I  take  it  is  what  you  are  after .f* " 

"Begin  at  the  beginning,"  I  said. 

"So  I  will.  I  told  you  I  was  born  at  sea.  My 
father  was  a  merchant  skipper  of  Boston.    I  don't 


ALIENS  83 

remember  him  very  well,  for  he  died  when  I  was 
seven,  but  I  have  a  vague  sort  of  an  idea  that  he 
was  a  big  man  with  big  dark  eyes  and  a  great  nose 
like  the  beak  of  a  bird.  He  had  run  away  to  sea 
when — well.  Napoleon  was  Emperor  of  the  French 
when  he  ran  away  to  sea.  Sailors  had  pigtails  and 
all  the  rest  of  it.  His  brothers  did  the  same.  At 
one  time,  in  the  'sixties,  there  were  six  skippers 
ploughing  the  ocean,  all  Carvilles,  all  big  black- 
whiskered  men.  You  may  hear  of  them  yet  in  the 
ports  out  East. 

"My  father  married  four  times.  There  was  one 
peculiarity,  or  fatality  if  you  like,  about  the  Car- 
villes, and  that  was  their  failure  to  beget  sons. 
Daughters  came  right  along  all  the  time.  I  have 
fourteen  cousins,  all  married,  and  all  got  boys! 
The  first  three  wives  my  father  had  only  produced 
two  daughters,  who  died  before  their  mothers.  You 
can  understand  that  those  six  big  men  took  it 
badly  there  were  no  sons.  When  the  third  wife 
died,  childless,  my  father  had  given  up  the  sea  for  a 
while  and  had  invested  in  a  ship-yard  at  St.  John, 
New  Brunswick.  It  was  there  that  he  met  my 
mother. 

"I  can't  go  into  details  I  never  knew,  so  all  I  can 
say  is  that  my  mother  was  French  Canadian.  They 
had  a  big  farm  away  up  the  Petitcodiac  River  and 
the  girls  used  to  come  down  to  St.  John  to  finish 
an  education  that  began  in  Moncton  and  really 
ended,  in  my  mother's  case,  in  London,  England. 

"They  built  ships  in  those  days  in  St.  John,  and 
some  of  the  best  were  my  father's  work.    As  I  said. 


84  ALIENS 

I  don't  remember  him  very  well,  but  you  will  un- 
derstand how  I  felt  when  one  day,  about  nine 
years  ago,  we  put  into  a  little  Spanish  port  for  coal, 
and  they  made  us  fast  to  an  old  wooden  hulk  in  the 
harbour.  As  we  came  round  her  stern  I  was  leaning 
over  the  side  and  I  saw  the  brass  letters  still  on 
her  square  counter.  Eastern  Star^  St.  John,  New 
Brunswick.  That  was  one  of  my  father's  finest 
models.  Pitch  pine  he  made  her  of,  and  she's 
beautiful  yet,  for  all  her  disgrace.  I  climbed  aboard 
of  her  while  the  Corcubion  women  were  trotting  to 
and  fro  with  the  coal  baskets,  and  looked  round 
the  poop.  There  was  the  cuddy  as  good  as  ever, 
teak  frames,  maple  panels,  pine  flooring.  That  old 
hulk  brought  my  old  father  before  me  as  no  daguer- 
reotype could  do.  There  was  his  name  cut  on  the 
beam,  John  Carville.  It  may  seem  absurd  to  you 
people,  but  do  you  know,  I  realized  then,  as  I 
looked  up  and  saw  my  father's  name  on  that  beam, 
nearly  smothered  with  countless  coats  of  varnish,  I 
realized  how  a  3'oung  man  of  family  feels,  a  Cecil, 
say,  a  Talbot  or  a  Churchill,  when  he  sees  his  an- 
cestors' names  in  the  history  books.  My  father  had 
done  something,  he  was  something.  I  don't  know 
anyone  who  can  better  that  title:  a  builder  of  ships. 

"And  my  father  did  more  than  that,  he  sailed 
them  and  owned  them.  So  far  he  had  been  under 
the  Union  flag,  but  this  time,  when  he  married  my 
mother,  and  his  masterpiece,  the  Erin's  Isle,  was 
anchored  in  St.  John  Harbour  ready  for  sea,  the 
Red  Ensign  was  flying  at  the  gaff." 

"Did  your  mother  go  too?"  asked  Bill. 


ALIENS  85 

"Surely!  You  think  that  strange?  Well,  it  was 
that  or  a  life  away  at  the  back  of  everything';  life 
on  a  farm,  with  a  visit  once  a  year  to  St.  John. 
You  like  the  country,  don't  you?  Yes,  but  if  you'd 
been  down  in  the  back-woods,  if  you'd  lived  in  the 
thrifty  way  French  Canadians  have  picked  up  from 
the  Nova  Scotians,  and  improved,  if  you  were  young 
and  wanted  to  see  sometliing,  you'd  risk  your  soul 
to  get  away  from  it.  You  think  a  woman  would 
have  an  awful  life  at  sea.  My  mother  jumped  at  it. 
She  married  a  man  who  was  sailing  as  skipper 
before  she  was  born,  and  jumped  at  it!  Taking 
everything  into  consideration,  I  don't  blame  her. 
You  see,  she  had  ambition,  my  mother  had.  Her 
education  had  been  good  enough,  and  she  wanted  to 
find  a  sphere  where  she  could  use  it." 

"And  so  she  went  to  sea?"  said  Bill  in  gentle 
sarcasm.  Bill's  aversion  to  the  sea  amounts  almost 
to  malevolence.    She  is  a  bad  sailor. 

"For  the  time  being,  and  to  see  the  world,"  said 
Mr.  Carville.  "She  had  seen  nothing,  remember. 
Well,  she  saw  it.  They  were  away  five  years.  You 
can  imagine  my  father's  feelings  when  the  first 
child  was  a  girl.  She  was  born  off  the  Ladrone 
Islands  in  the  Pacific  on  the  way  to  Hong  Kong. 
I  suppose  he  got  over  the  disappointment  some- 
how, for  I  never  heard  my  mother  say  anything 
about  quarrels  except  on  the  subject  of  living 
ashore.  I  told  you  my  mother  had  ambitions.  She 
wanted  to  live  in  England  and  have  an  establish- 
ment. But  my  father  couldn't  see  the  use.  If  she 
wanted   to   live   ashore,   he   argued,   why   couldn't 


86  ALIENS 

she  live  in  Hong  Kong  or  Bombay  or  Colombo  until 
he  was  ready  to  retire?  She  would  see  him  just  as 
often.  No,  she  had  no  intention  of  doing  that. 
She  saw  exactly  how  much  ice  a  skipper's  wife  cut 
in  a  community  of  skippers'  wives.  She  was  after 
higher  game.  She  settled  it  finally  that  if  she 
couldn't  live  in  London,  she'd  stay  aboard  the  ship 
all  her  life. 

"She  got  her  way,  but  not  all  at  once.  One  voy- 
age she  left  the  ship  in  Bombay  and  travelled  across 
India,  rejoining  at  Calcutta.  Then  she  lived  in 
Antwerp  a  good  while,  but  got  sick  of  it  and  shipped 
again  when  the  ship  sailed  for  Callao.  That  was  the 
last  of  her  voyages,  my  mother's  I  mean.  For  all  I 
know  the  Brings  Isle  swims  yet.  My  sister  was 
drowned  and  I  was  born  before  she  dropped  her 
anchor  in  London  River. 

"Drowned!"  said  Bill;  "a  little  baby?" 

"Going  ashore  in  Callao,"  said  Mr.  Carville, 
turning  to  her,  "there  was  a  'roller'  started.  I 
believe  it's  caused  by  the  sea-bed  shifting;  slight 
earthquake  in  fact.  The  roller  was  a  big  wave 
and  struck  the  ship's  boat  as  they  were  rowing 
across  the  harbour.  Accidents  will  happen,  no 
matter  how  careful  you  are." 

"Yes,"  we  said  quietly,  "they  will." 

"They  went  from  Callao  to  Brisbane  and  loaded 
again  in  Melbourne  for  home.  My  mother  used  to 
say  she  thought  they  would  never  get  round  the 
Cape  of  Good  Hope.  My  father  had  done  the 
voyage  once  in  sixty-two  days,  almost  a  record; 
but  this  time  everything  went  dead  wrong.     They 


ALIENS  87 

were  driven  as  far  as  the  Crozets,  somewhere  down 
near  the  South  Pole,  I  beheve.  The  grub  gave  out, 
and  even  my  mother  had  to  eat  bread  from  corn 
that  was  ground  in  the  coffee  mill.  The  crew  got 
restless  and  sulky.  I've  often  tried  to  imagine  it, 
the  Skipper  and  his  two  mates,  talking  it  over  in 
the  cuddy,  keeping  the  men  working  to  stop  their 
thinking,  running  for  days  under  reefed  courses 
and  double  reefed  topsails.  And  all  the  time  with 
something  else  on  his  mind,  something  that  mater- 
ialized finally,  into  me! 

"My  mother  told  me  that  my  father  nearly  went 
crazy  with  joy  when  I  was  born  one  Sunday  morn- 
ing, 18  south,  21  west,  at  seven  bells  on  the  star- 
board watch.  They  were  in  the  trade  then,  spanking 
along  almost  due  north  for  Fernando  Noronha.  It 
was  rum  for  all  hands  that  morning,  almost  the 
only  soft  thing  left  on  the  ship,  and  a  little  tea. 
The  tea  came  in  handy  for  their  pipes,  my  mother 
told  me.  Poor  chaps!  They  were  dying  for  a 
smoke.  Well,  I  have  always  got  a  good  deal  of 
satisfaction  from  knowing  everybody  was  glad  I 
came  into  the  world.  My  father  was  dancing  mad 
to  get  home  and  tell  all  the  folks  that  the  curse 
was  lifted.  He  promised  my  mother  anything;  a 
home  in  London  was  one  thing.  He  said  he  would 
quit  the  sea,  for  another.  And  he  kept  his  word 
too.  He  was  going  on  fifty-five,  and  had  been  at 
sea  for  thirty-eight  years.  Think  of  that!  I've 
been  at  it  for  fifteen  years  now,  and  it  seems  an 
infernally  long  time.    Thirty-eight  years! 

"  So  they  settled  in  England.    I  don't  know  whether 


88  ALIENS 

you  people  can  see  it  plainly,  but  if  you  think  a  little 
you  will  realize  how  strange  those  two  felt  in  London, 
with  their  Saratoga  trunks,  their  sea  habits  and  their 
American  prejudices.     Can  you?" 

He  looked  from  one  to  the  other  as  we  sat  there, 
our  chairs  twisted  a  little  so  that  we  could  see  his 
face.  The  question  was  a  shrewd  one.  I  remember 
wondering  if  he  was  aware  how  vividly  it  brought 
back  to  our  minds  our  first  few  weeks  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, our  mistakes,  our  petulant  anger  with  strange 
habits,  our  feeling  of  awful  homesickness.  Again  we 
nodded  silently. 

"For  a  time  they  were  up  against  it,  you  would 
say,"  he  went  on,  "and  they  didn't  dare  to  move 
away  from  their  lodgings  in  the  East  India  Dock 
Road.  It  was  natural  for  my  father  to  think  he 
ought  to  live  near  the  ships.  The  custom  of  living 
in  the  suburbs,  commuting  as  they  call  it  here, 
hadn't  begun  in  the  seventies.  It  was  my  mother 
who  fired  his  ambition  to  live  further  out.  It  would 
have  been  all  right  and  everything  might  have  been 
different  if  his  ambition  hadn't  been  fired  in  another 
direction  at  the  same  time. 

"My  father  had  done  well  on  the  whole.  He  had 
saved  for  years  and  kept  his  money  in  banks  or 
in  ships,  which  he  understood.  But  now,  when  the 
Erin's  Isle  was  sold  and  he  found  himself  worth 
about  fifty  thousand  dollars,  he  began  to  invest  in 
all  sorts  of  queer  ventures.  He  wanted  to  double 
his  fortune  before  he  died.  Others  had  done  it, 
men  he  met  in  Leadenhall  Street  and  on  the  Baltic; 
why  shouldn't  he.^    You  see,  he  had  got  hold  of  the 


ALIENS  89 

masculine  part  of  my  mother's  ambition  all  right. 
She  wanted  to  have  an  estabHshment,  Hke  a  lady; 
he  wanted  to  found  a  family  in  England.  The 
money  he  was  to  make  was  for  me.  I  was,  he  had 
settled,  to  be  an  engineer.  He  saw,  that  with  steel 
coming  in,  engineering  was  to  be  the  great  gold- 
mine of  the  future.  So  he  would  provide  the  capital 
by  which  I  was  to  build  up  a  huge  fortune.  The 
Carvilles  were  to  be  big  people,  understand;  ^my 
son  was  to  be  Prime  Minister  some  day.'    Humph!" 

There  was  no  bitterness  in  the  exclamation,  only 
a  veiled  irony,  a  detached  amusement,  at  this  mem- 
ory of  a  dead  ambition.    We  did  not  interrupt. 

"They  moved  out  just  a  little  way,  to  Mildmay 
Park.  You  must  remember  that  my  father  had  no 
friends  outside  of  business  friends,  and  he  had  no 
idea  that  he  would  gain  anything  by  moving  west. 
My  mother  disliked  what  she  saw  of  Kensington 
and  Bayswater,  and  they  thought  in  their  sim- 
plicity that  places  with  names  like  Mildmay  Park, 
Finsbury  Park,  and  finally  Oakleigh  Park,  were 
good  enough  to  begin  on.  Each  move  was  a  little 
further  out,  a  little  bigger  house  and  a  little  higher 
rent  until  at  Oakleigh  Park,  when  I  was  six  years  old, 
it  was  a  big  semi-detached  villa,  with  a  garden  and 
tennis-lawn  and  professional  people  for  neighbours. 
That  year  my  brother  was  born  and  my  father 
began  to  die. 

"You  will  laugh,  I  suppose,  at  the  folly  of  it,  but 
in  her  own  way,  my  mother  was  setting  up  to  be  a 
fine  lady.  We  had  a  cook  and  housemaid,  and  a 
nurse  for  me,  and  fine  things  I  learned  from  her! 


90  ALIENS 

We  had  a  hired  landau  on  Saturday  afternoon  to 
go  drives  in,  a  pew  in  the  church,  and  sometimes 
people  to  dinner.  She  even  got  my  father  to  send 
to  Dublin  to  find  out  the  Carville  ancestry  and 
coat-of-arms.  She  did,  that's  a  fact!  So  you  see, 
she  understood  perfectly  what  was  meant  in  Eng- 
land by  keeping  up  a  position.  As  I  said,  if  my 
father  had  not  got  a  sort  of  mania  for  turning  his 
money  over,  the  scheme  might  have  gone  through. 

"He  began  to  die  when  I  was  not  quite  six,  and 
he  went  on  dying  and  at  the  same  time  investing 
money  until  I  was  nearly  eight.  Imagine  it!  A 
great  big  man,  as  irritable  as  a  child,  slowly  rotting 
away  inside  with  cancer,  and  two  helpless  little 
children,  one  a  baby.  All  the  time  it  was  doctor 
after  doctor,  each  one  recommending  a  different 
cure;  all  the  time  it  was  investment  after  invest- 
ment, the  estate  getting  more  and  more  entangled. 
He  went  to  Baden  one  autumn  and  came  home 
worse.  He  tried  Harrogate  in  the  spring,  but  it 
was  no  use.  He  came  back,  went  to  bed  and  never 
rose  from  it.  IVIind  you,  all  the  time  the  cancer 
was  eating  his  body,  this  other  cancer  was  at  his 
mind.  He  plunged  into  the  craziest  schemes  for 
getting  twenty  per  cent,  interest.  Nothing  my 
mother  could  say  was  able  to  make  him  see  the 
madness  of  it.  She  wanted  him  to  buy  land,  but  he 
said  no  one  but  a  fool  would  buy  land  unless  they 
had  a  fortune  to  keep  it  up.  At  last,  one  January, 
it  was  over  and  done  with.  He  died,  and  we  had  a 
grand  funeral,  and  the  real  business  of  life  began 
for  us. 


ALIENS  91 

"For  me  it  took  a  shape  that  I  never  got  used  to 
for  all  the  years  I  was  kept  at  it — school.  For  the 
life  of  me  I  can't  see  what  use  it  was  to  me  or  to 
anyone  else.  What  does  a  child  learn  at  school 
that's  of  any  use  to  him?  You'll  think  I  am  talking 
like  an  ignorant  fool,  I  dare  say,  but  hear  me  out. 
Between  eight  and  seventeen  I  went  to  six  different 
schools.  The  country  in  those  days  was  spotted 
with  them.  Some  were  called  colleges,  some  acad- 
emies, one  was  called  an  'Ecole'  of  something  or 
other.  Each  one  I  went  to  had  a  different  badge, 
a  different  coloured  tassel,  a  different  set  of  rules 
and  subjects.  Barring  the  last  one,  which  was  down 
in  Essex,  near  Maldon,  they  were  simply  swindles. 
A  mile  from  our  house  was  a  board-school,  but  it 
would  not  have  been  keeping  up  our  position  to 
send  me  there.  I  learned  to  read  and  write,  but, 
Great  God!  curiosity  will  make  a  child  do  that.  If 
he  isn't  curious  to  learn  what's  the  use  of  him 
learning.'^  He  just  forgets  it,  as  I  forgot  it,  as  you 
did  too  very  likely,  forgot  it  and  learned  it  again 
when  you  needed  to.  A  child  ought  to  be  outdoors 
learning  the  names  of  flowers  and  trees  and  birds. 
I  know  what  I'm  talking  about,  mind!  You  may 
fancy  that  if  a  boy  is  going  into  the  professions  as 
I  was  to  go,  as  I  did  go,  he  ought  to  be  schooled. 
Well,  when  I  entered  my  profession  at  seventeen,  I 
had  to  begin  at  the  bottom  for  all  my  schooling. 
I  know  as  much  of  'professions'  as  most  men,  and 
I  say  of  schools,  I  have  no  faith  in  them.  The  men 
who  teach  in  them  know  nothing.  They're  frauds 
and  they  know  it.    All  that  these  schools  did  for  me 


92  ALIENS 

was  to  teach  me  the  importance  of  keeping  up  a 
position. 

"Twenty  per  cent!  Twenty  per  cent!  The  mad- 
ness of  it!  The  holes  and  corners  he  had  rushed 
into,  in  his  frantic  hunt  for  twenty  per  cent!  A 
bank  in  Austraha,  a  railroad  in  Ecuador,  a  sailing 
ship  that  never  by  any  chance  sailed  into  pros- 
perity, a  ginger-beer  works  in  Denmark,  a  cement 
works  in  Spain,  a  foolish  concern  which  proposed  to 
earn  vast  sums  by  buying  moribund  bad  debts,  a 
drydock  in  Japan,  and  a  lunatic-scheme  for  shoeing 
horses  without  nails!  This  last  invention,  if  I  re- 
member rightly,  was  to  fasten  them  with  steel 
suspenders  and  a  kind  of  cuff-button  over  the 
pastern!  And  we  couldn't  even  leave  the  infernal 
things  to  die  of  inanition.  Not  content  with  paying 
no  dividend,  their  familiar  demons  used  to  wake  up 
and  demand  more  capital.  Calls!  I  would  come 
home  from  school  for  my  vacation  and  find  my 
mother  nearly  crazy  over  another  call.  We  were  so 
simple  that  at  first  we  paid  them,  and  my  father's 
old  'business  friends'  (he  hadn't  any  others  that  I 
ever  heard  of)  saw  no  objection.  Humph!  When  I 
read  in  novels  how  a  father's  friends  help  the  hero 
and  heroine,  succouring  the  widow  and  the  father- 
less, I  must  smile.  I  recall  the  days  of  our  storm 
and  stress,  when  those  sleek  and  slippery  wolves, 
the  'business  friends'  of  my  father,  sat  round  wait- 
ing for  my  poor  distracted,  gallant-hearted  mother 
to  stumble  and  stagger  in  her  struggle  with  those 
wild-cats  of  investments.  Wild  cats!  Bengal  tigers 
were  a  better  name  for  them!    But  she  didn't!    She 


ALIENS  93 

won  out  and  defied  the  whole  caboodle,  as  she  called 
them  when  she  was  roused.  She  won  out,  or  I 
shouldn't  be  here  now,  maybe.  She  was  a  mother 
fighting  for  her  offspring,  and  many  a  shrewd 
knock  they  had  from  her.  And  the  '  business  friends ' 
slunk  away  and  we've  never  seen  them  since.  They 
talk  about  the  romance  of  big  business.  What 
about  the  tragedy  of  the  small  business?  What 
about  the  dark  and  dirty  meannesses  of  business? 
What  about  the  'business  friend,'  watching,  watch- 
ing for  the  weaker  ones  to  fall?  What  sort  of  ro- 
mance is  there  in  battles  between  wolves  and 
women,  in  wars  without  chivalry?  Mercy?  Con- 
sideration for  the  weak  and  helpless?  Knightly 
courtesy  towards  women?  You  won't  find  any  of 
them  in  business,  I'm  afraid.  I  remember  often 
sitting  in  the  room  with  my  book,  a  school-boy  on 
his  holidays,  while  some  smug  specimen  of  the 
business-friend  variety  sat  explaining  and  domineer- 
ing over  my  mother,  who  did  her  best  to  understand. 
Perhaps  she  was  diflBcult  and  stupid.  It  isn't  every 
woman — or  man  either — who  can  keep  a  grasp  on 
the  details  of  banks  and  railroads  and  cement  and 
ginger-beer  and  marine  insurance  and  company-law 
and  all  the  other  tarradiddles  that  were  going  to 
yield  twenty  per  cent  and  didn't  yield  twenty 
cents!  I  used  to  wonder  if  these  men's  own  wives 
would  be  as  intelligent  as  my  mother  in  similar 
circumstances.  Humph!  I  saw  those  ladies  in  one 
or  two  instances  when  they  were  widowed  and  had 
to  face  the  world  without  a  man.  I  was  astounded. 
To  see  those  proud  big-bosomed  women,  with  their 


94  ALIENS 

red  faces  and  narrow  hearts  and  silly  conversation, 
collapse  and  go  down  in  ruin  before  the  blasts  of 
adversity!  To  see  them,  who  had  tried  in  their 
patronizing  way  to  get  us  to  give  up  our  home  and 
go  into  apartments,  selling  up  and  letting  apart- 
ments themselves!  Them!  They  hadn't  a  tenth  of 
the  fight  in  them  my  little  colonial  mother  had,  for 
all  their  big  bosoms  and  tall  brag  about  their  inde- 
pendence and  the  fine  offers  they  had  when  they 
were  single.  Some  of  the  men  too  were  in  mis- 
fortune after  a  while.  Some  disaster  sent  up  a  big 
wave  which  washed  them  off  their  little  rafts.  I 
used  to  wonder  what  became  of  them.  One  I  know 
died  of  heart-trouble.  He  was  never  troubled  with 
his  heart  when  he  sat  in  our  parlour  laying  down 
the  law  to  a  harassed  widow  and  trying  to  get  her 
money  into  his  own  rotten  little  business.  Oh,  it 
used  to  make  my  heart  burn  within  me;  but  what 
could  I  do.f^  All  very  fine  for  boys  in  novels  to  make 
vows  to  get  the  fortune  back.  Humph!  You 
might  as  well  try  to  get  butter  off  a  dog's  tongue, 
or  capture  the  steam  from  the  kettle.  It*s  gone! 
Besides,  I  always  had  a  dumb  dislike  of  business. 
I  used  to  moon.  We  were  so  troubled  with  business- 
troubles  we  had  no  time  to  live.  We  never  really 
got  to  know  each  other.  I  used  to  think  my  mother 
was  hard  and  unsympathetic  because  her  view  of 
life  wasn't  mine — as  if  it  could  be.  It  was  a  miser- 
able tangle.  There  was  my  father,  whose  love  for 
us  made  him  leave  us  that  horrible  legacy  of  invest- 
ments. And  my  mother  was  so  busy  providing  for 
us  she  had  no  leisure  to  love  us.    And  my  brother 


ALIENS  95 

and  I  were  so  different  in  temper  and  age  and  in- 
clination we  simply  ignored  each  other.  Love?  It's 
easy  to  talk;  but  think  of  the  innumerable  grada- 
tions of  it!  Think  of  how  incompetent  most  of  us 
are  to  express  it!  I  used  to  hear  the  servants  use 
the  word,  and  I  would  wonder.  I  used  to  read 
stories  about  it,  and  wonder  still  more.  Little  Lord 
Fauntleroy  .    .    .  Humph! 

"Somehow  or  other,  my  mother  did  eventually 
get  things  straight.  There  wasn't  much  to  bring 
up  a  future  Prime  Minister  on,  and  besides,  there 
was  my  brother.  He  took  more  after  my  father 
than  I  did.  I  was  mother's  boy,  but  he  was  a  dark 
daring  little  devil  without  much  respect  for  either 
of  us.  I  don't  know  quite  how  it  began,  but  be- 
tween us  there  grew  a  feeling  that  can't  be  called 
brotherly  love.  Perhaps  he  realized  that,  according 
to  my  mother's  ideas  of  founding  a  family,  I  was  to 
be  first  and  he  was  to  be — nowhere.  As  it  hap- 
pened this  was  not  just.  He  was  clever  from  the 
very  first.  I  was  to  be  an  engineer,  and  he  was  to 
do — well,  anything  that  came  along.  But  he  had 
the  talent  for  engineering;  I  hadn't.  I  liked  it,  just 
as  any  boy  does,  but  while  I  couldn't  do  a  simple 
division  sum  without  making  a  mess  of  it,  he  could 
do  it  in  his  head,  and  standing  on  his  head  for  that 
matter.  Whatever  he  tried,  that  he  could  do, 
whereas  my  range  has  always  been  quiet  and  limited. 
I  liked  reading.  He  never  seemed  to  be  in  the  house 
long  enough  to  read  anything,  but  he  knew  more 
than  I  did.    He  does  now." 

"Where  is  he  now?"  I  asked.    He  laughed. 


Q6  ALIENS 

"That's  more  than  I  can  say.  I'll  get  to  that 
presently.  What  I  want  you  to  understand  is  the 
feeling  we  brothers  had  for  each  other.  He  didn't 
detest  me,  you  know.  He  didn't  take  the  trouble 
to  do  that.  He  simply  laughed  at  me.  He  made 
friends  with  board-school  boys  and  even  errand- 
boys.  One  day  my  mother  saw  him  out  in  the 
baker's  cart  driving  it  round  the  neighbourhood. 
It  was  a  sore  humiliation  for  her,  I'm  afraid.  He 
didn't  care.  There  were  girls,  too,  even  when  he 
was  only  ten  or  eleven.    Humph! 

"All  this  time  I  was  growing  up  in  this  sort  of 
life,  the  life  of  the  professional  classes.  When  I 
left  school,  at  seventeen,  neither  my  mother  nor  I 
had  much  idea  of  the  way  a  young  gentleman  be- 
came an  engineer.  She  had  no  relatives  in  England, 
my  father's  brothers  were  either  at  sea  or  dead, 
and  my  father's  business  friends  dropped  away 
when  he  died,  a  way  business  friends  have,  I've 
noticed  since.  We  were  aliens  still  as  far  as  real 
friends  went.  And  then  one  day  we  saw  an  inter- 
view in  a  paper  called  the  Young  Pilgrim,  one  of 
those  mushy  papers  for  young  people  that  do  a  lot 
of  harm,  in  my  opinion.  It  was  an  interview  with 
Sir  Gregory  Gotch,  the  great  engineer.  My  mother, 
who  had  a  good  deal  of  practical  enterprise,  decided 
to  write  to  him  and  ask  him.  I've  often  wondered 
what  he  thought  of  that  letter.  It  ran  something 
like  this :  Mrs.  Carville  presents  her  compliments  to  Sir 
Gregory  Gotch,  and  would  be  obliged  to  him  if  he  would 
inform  her  of  the  best  way  to  article  her  son  {aged 
seventeen)  to  the  engineering  profession  in  a  manner 


ALIENS  97 

.mitable  to  his  position.  Something  like  that.  You 
can  understand  from  that  that  my  mother  had 
grasped  the  principle  of  gentility  all  right.  It  went 
down,  too,  for  in  a  few  days  we  had  an  answer,  in 
which  the  great  man  gave  the  names  of  three  or 
four  firms  in  London  that  he  recommended  as  re- 
liable and  old-established.  We  selected  one,  and 
apparently  Sir  Gregory's  name  was  an  open  sesame 
there,  for  we  had  an  invitation  to  go  into  the  city 
and  see  them  at  once. 

"We  went,  the  gentlemanly  youth  and  his  lady- 
like mother,  and  saw  the  heads  of  the  firm.  We 
discovered  then,  that  there  were  two  ways  of  learn- 
ing engineering,  an  easy  way  and  a  hard  way. 
People  say  there's  no  royal  road  to  learning.  Like 
most  proverbs,  it's  a  lie.  There's  always  a  royal 
road,  if  you  happen  to  be  king  of  enough  money. 
I  might  be  an  ordinary  apprentice  or  a  special 
pupil.  If  I  was  apprenticed  I  should  have  to  start 
at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  work  just  like 
the  men.  I  would  stay  in  one  shop  for  seven  years 
and  be  turned  out  an  expert  mechanic.  And  I 
would  have  to  wait  six  months  for  an  opening,  as 
they  were  full-up.  If  I  came  as  a  pupil,  however, 
I  would  be  allowed  to  spend  so  much  time  in  each 
shop,  including  the  offices;  I  could  start  at  nine 
o'clock  in  the  morning  and  finish  the  whole  business 
in  three  years.  The  premium  was  nine  hundred 
dollars,  and  I  could  start  that  minute.  They  didn't 
seem  to  care  how  soon  they  got  that  nine  hundred 
dollars. 

"We  talked  it  over  in  the  train.    Of  course,  I  was 


98  ALIENS 

all  for  the  royal  road  and  had  plenty  of  good  argu- 
ments in  favour  of  it.  What  I  want  you  to  notice 
is  that  my  mother  was  in  favour  of  it,  too!  Think 
of  it.  She  had  been  brought  up  in  a  hard  school. 
She  knew  what  it  was  to  live  sparingly  and  how 
useful  early  discipline  was.  She  had  told  me  often 
that  all  great  men  had  a  hard  struggle.  Therefore, 
how  could  I  be  a  great  man  if  I  didn't  have  a  hard 
struggle.'^  And  yet  she  was  so  obsessed  with  this 
notion  of  gentility  that  she  deliberately  gave  me  a 
soft  time.  She  paid  out  three  hundred  dollars  every 
year  for  three  years   .    .    . 

"That  time  was  what  you  might  call  a  comedy 
of  errors.  I  am  not  going  to  admit  that  I  idled, 
for  it  is  not  true.  I  was  ambitious.  Since  I  was 
to  be  an  engineer  I  went  at  it  bald-headed.  I  went 
to  polytechnics  and  night-schools,  I  spent  whole 
nights  in  study,  and  did  everything  that  any  young 
chap  could  do.  The  whole  of  my  efforts  did  not 
amount  to  a  row  of  rivets.  Why.?*  I  was  up  against 
the  gentility  again.  I  met  the  professional  classes 
face  to  face. 

"There  were  three  other  chaps  there  as  pupils, 
and  it  so  happened  that  they  were  every  one  from 
the  great  public  schools.  One  was  from  Hailey- 
bury,  one  from  Eton,  and  another  from  Winchester. 
When  they  found  I  was  not  one  of  them  they  ragged 
me,  of  course,  which  was  good  and  proper.  I  often 
think  the  ragging  in  public  schools  is  one  of  the 
few  useful  things  they  do  there.  WTien  these  men 
found  I  intended  to  study  my  profession  they 
thought   I   was   stark   mad.     They   were   all   nice 


ALIENS  99 

young  fellows  and  had  money  coming  to  them. 
Why  should  they  bother?  They  thought  I  ought 
to  look  at  it  in  the  same  light.  Eventually  I  did. 
It  was  three  to  one.  I  found  out  that  any  amount 
of  study  and  genuine  merit  would  not  carry  me 
along  in  a  profession.  It  was  all  well  enough  to 
be  an  engineer;  but  the  main  thing  was  to  be  a 
gentleman.  Gradually  I  dropped  the  study,  took 
afternoons  off  to  go  down  west  and  began  to  worry 
my  mother  for  more  money. 

"So  it  went  on  for  the  three  years,  my  mother 
patiently  waiting  for  me  to  get  thrdugh  my  time 
and  start  in  earnest  as  a  professional  man.  My 
brother  was  at  school,  the  one  near  Maldon,  and 
was  giving  her  a  lot  of  trouble.  I  only  saw  him 
during  the  vacations.  He  was  a  big  fellow,  while 
as  you  see,  I'm  rather  on  the  small  side.  I  don't 
know  that  that  should  cause  anybody  any  amuse- 
ment! But  because  I  was  twenty  and  he  was 
thirteen  and  nearly  as  tall  as  I  was,  he  was  for  ever 
laughing.  It  seemed  to  him  a  huge  joke.  And 
as  I  thought  about  it  the  idea  came  to  me  that  even 
nature  was  on  his  side  and  against  me.  It  almost 
seemed  as  though  she'd  not  only  given  him  the 
brains,  but  the  stature  to  be  the  great  man  my 
father  and  mother  longed  for.  He  was  good-looking 
too,  I  remember,  even  then.  My  mother  had  to 
pack  off  a  servant  that  vacation,  a  silly  giggling 
little  girl. 

"I  couldn't  very  well  say  anything  to  him,  be- 
cause I  was  getting  into  hot  water  myself  for  spend- 
ing money.    And  when  he  wrote  in  mid-term  for  an 


100  ALIENS 

extra  sovereign,  my  mother  blamed  me  for  setting 
him  a  bad  example.  Lord!  I  didn't  have  a  sov- 
ereign a  year  when  I  was  thirteen.  Times  had 
changed. 

"I  had  been  drifting  along  for  some  time,  ex- 
pecting when  my  time  was  up  to  be  put  on  the 
staff,  as  was  usual  with  pupils.  They  usually  gave 
us  a  job  until  we  could  use  our  influence  to  get  an 
appointment  somewhere.  But  in  my  case  it  didn't 
happen  so.  The  day  my  three  years'  term  was  up, 
a  beautiful  spring  day,  the  junior  partner  informed 
me  that  I  could  consider  myself  finished,  and  handed 
me  a  reference  that,  for  all  the  use  it  was,  might 
have  gone  into  the  waste-paper  basket  then  and 
there. 

"I  was  staggered.  I  had  no  idea  of  how  to  get 
a  job.  Why  had  I  been  pushed  out.'*  Simply  be- 
cause the  firm  had  found  out  I  had  no  influence 
with  Sir  Gregory  Gotch,  no  standing  socially  at 
all.  I  was  an  ahen  in  their  ranks.  I  went  out  of 
that  office  with  all  the  externals  of  a  gentleman 
and  a  public-school  boy,  but  inwardly  an  outsider 
as  you  may  say.  One  thing  I  had  though,  and  that 
was  the  firm  conviction  that  'pull'  and  not  merit 
counted.  I  had  to  get  some  one  to  'influence'  a  job 
in  my  favour.  It  would  not  have  been  gentlemanly 
to  answer  an  advertisement ! 

"My  mother  thought  at  once  of  one  of  my  uncles, 
who  had  retired  from  the  sea  and  was  now  a  marine 
superintendent  in  Fenchurch  Street.  I  called  to 
see  him;  but  he  was  abroad  attending  to  a  damaged 
ship.     I  think  it  was  a  month  before  I  happened 


ALIENS  101 

to  meet  the  Winchester  boy  who  had  been  in  the 
works  with  me.  Quite  by  accident  it  was.  Let 
me  see  now " 

Mr.  Carville  paused  again,  and  leaning  over  to 
one  of  the  geranium  tubs  knocked  his  pipe  out. 
Suddenly  he  laughed. 

"Why,"  he  said,  "I'm  telling  you  the  whole 
story." 

"That's  what  we  want  you  to  do,"  I  said,  and 
the  others  nodded. 

"The  trouble  is,  you  know,"  went  on  Mr.  Car- 
ville, "one  thing  leads  to  another.  You  can't  un- 
derstand what  I  am  without  knowing  how  my 
brother  and  I  came  to  be  so — antagonistic.  And  to 
explain  that  it's  necessary  to  show  you  how  I  grew 
up  in  this  professional,  easy-going,  snobby  atmos- 
phere and  took  it  all  in,  while  he,  my  brother,  cut 
out  his  own  course  and  went  his  own  way  in  de- 
fiance of  everything.  I  remember  now!  I  saw  that 
Winchester  chap — his  father  was  a  wine-merchant 
and  Master  of  the  Tinkers'  Company — at  Lord's. 
I  had  nothing  to  do,  and  instead  of  hunting  round 
to  get  a  job,  I  went  to  Lord's  to  see  the  cricket. 
There  was  old  Belvoir  clumping  away  at  the  nets. 
Engineering!  Pooh!  He  had  eight  hundred  a  year 
his  aunt  left  him — catch  him  practising  as  an  en- 
gineer. He  was  going  on  a  tour  of  all  the  Mediter- 
ranean watering-places  with  an  M.C.C.  team.  Well, 
we  had  lunch  in  the  pavilion,  and  I  mentioned  in  a 
jolly  sort  of  way  that  I'd  been  jounced  out  of  the 
office.  He  said  it  was  *a  bally  shame.'  Oh,  I  did 
envy  that  chap  his  eight  hundred  a  year!     Life* 


102  ALIENS 

seemed  to  him  one  grand,  sweet  song.  Cricket, 
Riviera,  dances,  clubs,  country  houses,  everything. 
He  was  fenced  in  on  every  side,  safe  from  the  vul- 
garity of  the  world.  He  was  hall-marked — a  public- 
school  man.  He  was  a  citizen  of  his  world,  I  was  an 
alien.  He  was  rich.  I  had  not  even  a  savings-bank 
book. 

"I  was  going  away  after  the  match  when  I  dis- 
covered he  had  been  thinking  about  me.  That  was 
Belvoir  all  over.  He  was  a  gentleman,  and  a  gentle- 
man to  my  mind  is  like  an  artist  in  one  thing  only, 
he  is  born — and  then  made.  That  was  Belvoir.  He 
had  privileges  as  an  English  gentleman,  but  he  had 
also  duties.  We  had  been  together  in  the  shop  as 
pupils;  that  gave  me  a  claim  on  him.  He  said  he 
had  an  uncle  in  Yorkshire  who  was  chairman  of  an 
engineering  firm,  and  he  would  write  to  him.  More 
than  that,  he  did  write  and  I  got  an  appointment 
in  their  London  office  in  Victoria  Street.  Good  old 
Belvoir!  Remember  Spion  Kop?  That  was  the  last 
of  Belvoir.    Lord's,  Riviera,  clubs — Spion  Kop  .  .  . 

"I  settled  down  into  that  berth  in  Victoria  Street 
as  a  cat  settles  into  a  cushion.  I  was  warm,  com- 
fortable, well-paid,  well-dressed  and  had  all  I  wanted 
in  reason.  I  lived  at  home  and  commuted  to  the 
city  every  day,  travelling  first  class,  living  first 
class.  I  settled  down.  I  was  on  the  way  to  what 
my  mother  and  father  had  in  view,  a  comfortable 
position. 

"My  brother  was  at  school,  of  course,  down  near 
Maldon.  I  never  really  got  hold  of  my  mother's 
private  opinion  of  her  second  son.     It  was  a  mys- 


ALIENS  103 

tery  to  me  why  she  gave  him  so  much  pocket- 
money.  I  came  to  the  conclusion  afterwards  that 
since  she  considered  it  her  duty  to  give  me  a  good 
start  and  put  by  all  she  could  for  my  capital  in 
business,  there  would  be  very  little  later  on  for  my 
brother,  so  she  was  giving  him  tips  now  instead. 
She  was  able  to  say,  *I  never  stinted  you  at  school, 
Francis.*  It  might  have  been  better  for  him  if 
she  had.  And  yet,  I  don't  know.  I've  come  to 
think  that  men  like  my  brother  go  their  own  road 
anyhow.  Their  hereditary  nature  is  so  strong  that 
environment  makes  no  difference,  you  might  say. 

"The  main  difference  between  us,  when  I  was 
twenty-two  and  he  was  fifteen,  was  the  subject  of 
women.  That  sounds  strange,  I  suppose.  But  go 
back.  What  did  you  know  about  women  at  fifteen.'* 
Or  about  yourseK.^*  My  brother  knew  no  more, 
but  he  acted  on  the  little  he  did  know,*  we  were 
afraid.  Especially  we  who  grow  up  in  such  a  social 
life  as  I  have  been  talking  of;  we  are  afraid.  My 
brother  was  never  afraid  of  anything.  If  he  wants 
a  thing  he  makes  one  bound  and  grabs  it.  If  he 
hates  a  thing  he  makes  another  bound  and  hits  it. 
I've  seen  a  man  flinch  just  because  my  brother 
looked  at  him.  As  for  women,  humph!  He  had 
only  to  hold  up  his  hand. 

"Now  I  don't  offer  it  as  a  proof  of  virtue,  but  at 
twenty-one  I  had  not  bothered  with  girls  much. 
I  will  explain  in  a  minute  why  this  was  the  case. 
For  the  same  reason  I  did  not  smoke  or  play  cards. 
Let  me  get  back  to  my  brother. 

"One  mid-term  my  mother  got  a  letter  from  the 


104  ALIENS 

head-master  saying  lie  regretted  that  he  had  been 
under  the  painful  necessity  of  expelling  Francis 
Carville  from  the  school.  He  had  been  caught 
flagrante  delicto,  as  the  old  chap  said,  and  one  of 
the  maids  had  been  dismissed.  You  can  imagine 
how  a  thing  like  that  upset  my  mother.  Old  Col- 
onial morality  was  pretty  strict)  I  have  read,  and  in 
any  case_,  when  these  things  happen  in  your  own 
family  it  is  very  different  from  reading  about  them 
in  the  Press.  But  what  raised  our  worry  still  higher 
was  the  curious  fact  that  although  he  had  been 
expelled  and  put  on  the  London  train  at  Maldon, 
he  hadn't  turned  up." 

There  was  another  pause  as  Mr.  Carville  struck  a 
match.  It  was  nearly  dark  and  we  watched  his 
face  reflecting  the  glow.  Suddenly  Bill  realized  the 
time  and  rose. 

"Won't  you  stay  to  dinner.''"  she  asked. 

"No  thank  you,"  he  said.  "IVIrs.  Carville's  going 
into  Newark  this  evening,  I  believe,  and  we're 
going  to  take  the  boys  to  a  show."  He  rose.  "I 
must  get  back.    Good-night." 

"Come  in  and  finish  your  story,"  said  Mac. 

"All  right.  Good-night  and  thank  you."  He 
lifted  his  hat  and  stepped  off  the  porch. 


CHAPTER  Vn 

DiAPORESIS 

THE  discussion  at  dinner  that  evening  was 
unexpectedly  animated.  We  all  had  our 
theories  to  propound,  our  notes  to  com- 
pare and  our  criticisms  to  offer.  To  this 
I  contributed  my  share,  but  reserved  a  conclusion 
to  which  I  had  been  approaching  all  through  the 
tale.  I  wished  to  submit  it  to  the  tests  of  coffee 
and  music,  to  become  more  familiar  with  it  before  I 
exposed  it  to  Bill's  shrewd  scrutiny  and  Mac's  sar- 
donic judgment. 

To  my  surprise  they  insisted  upon  the  strangeness 
of  the  story. 

"To  my  mind,"  I  said,  "the  story  can  scarcely 
be  called  strange,  so  far." 

"I  wonder  where  his  brother  got  to  after  he  was 
expelled,"  said  Bill. 

"Do  you  think  Cecil's  man  is  the  brother.''"  asked 
Mac. 

"You  mean  interesting,"  I  continued. 

"Well,"  said  Mac,  "interesting  if  you  like.  That 
don't  make  it  any  the  less  strange.    Is  Cecil's  man 


"The  really  strange  part  of  this  man's  story,"  I 
declared,  oracularly,  "is  the  fact  that  he  is  telling 
it;  mark  that!  And  a  stranger  thing  still  is  the 
way  he  is  telling  it!" 

"Ex  cathedra!"  said  Mac,  sarcastically. 

105 


106  ALIENS 

f  "Explain  it  all  over  again,"  said  Bill. 
7  I  did  so,  but  they  saw  no  brilliance  in  my  ex- 
planation. They  were  artistic,  but  not  artistic 
enough  to  appreciate  the  nuance  of  the  story-telling 
art.  Perhaps  this  is  nothing  against  them.  Each  to 
his  trade.    And  yet — sugar-plums! 

It  pleased  my  friend  that  evening  to  undertake 
the  rendering  of  a  work  which,  unfortunately,  can 
only  be  butchered  on  a  piano.  Of  all  Wagner's 
music  the  Walkuren  Ride  is  least  adapted  to  our 
homely  instrument.  Nevertheless  the  wild  clatter, 
the  exciting  crepitation  of  the  treble,  the  thun- 
derous boomiiig  of  the  bass,  and  above  all  the 
tremendous  crash  with  which  it  ends,  always  stim- 
ulates me  to  fresh  mental  effort.  I  saw  plainly, 
as  I  listened,  that  my  surmise  was  correct.  I  saw 
that  I  had  no  need  to  wait  for  the  explanation  of 
the  phrase:  "An  author?  Ah!"  I  saw,  in  short, 
that  Mr.  Carville,  whatever  he  might  be  in  the  eyes 
of  his  wife,  his  brother,  or  of  the  world,  was  a  po- 
tential artist.  As  I  recapitulated  to  myself  the 
various  points  in  his  tale,  the  careful  balancing  of 
his  narrative  with  sententious  criticism  of  life,  the 
occasional  fiction,  to  give  verisimilitude  to  trivial 
events  (the  incident  of  Belvoir  for  example),  and 
particularly  his  abrupt  departure  in  the  dusk,  leav- 
ing us  guessing,  I  felt  certain  that  for  me  his  tale 
would  have  a  denouement  of  peculiar  interest. 
Already  I  perceived  the  deliberate  attempt  of  the 
man  to  convey  the  obscure  and  rare  emotion  which 
dominated  his  intellectual  life. 

Afterwards,  in  the  studio,  I  suggested  that  the 


ALIENS  107 

story  of  Turner's  sugar-plums  might  throw  some 
Hght  upon  Mr.  Carville's  story. 

"How?"  said  Mac,  who  is  reluctant  to  see  pro- 
fane hands  touch  the  master-colourist's  memory.  I 
explained  again. 

"He  is  taking  a  lot  of  romantic  episodes,  mixing 
them  up,  adding  a  little  imaginary  landscape  and 
offering  it  to  us,"  I  said.  "We  asked  for  a  story. 
We  shall  have  it,  says  he." 

"He's  such  an  ordinary  looking  chap,"  began 
Mac.     Bill  laughed. 

"So  am  I,"  I  retorted  with  a  grin. 

"You  know  what  I  mean,"  he  protested.  "I 
meant  ordinary  in  voice  and  general  tone.  But  if 
what  you  say  is  true  he  must  be  a  damn  clever 
chap." 

"An  artist,"  I  agreed. 

"I  can't  make  him  out,"  said  Bill,  sewing  busily. 
"What  in  the  world  has  all  this  to  do  with  his 
children.'^    /  want  to  know  where  they  met." 

"So  you  will,  dear  lady,  never  fear,"  I  said, 
smiling.  "I  think  Mr.  Carville  understands  your 
desire  perfectly." 

*'0h,  I  know  I'm  a  very  simple  person "  she 

began. 

"By  no  means,"  I  cried.  "Mr.  Carville  would 
never  suggest  such  a  thing.  But  think  for  a  mo- 
ment! Is  it  not  a  fair  guess  that  a  man  like  our 
neighbour,  who  has  had  such  a  varied  career,  who 
can  divine  my  interest  in  him  as  an  author,  and 
Mac's  as  an  artist,  will  be  able  to  fathom  the  reason 
why  you  watch  him  with  a  tense  and  silent  stare?" 


108  ALIENS 

"Did  I  stare?"  she  said.    "I'm  sorry." 

"We  all  stared,"  I  returned.     "Anyone  would." 

The  telephone  rang  and  Mac  went  to  answer  it. 
We  could  hear  his  voice  plainly  on  the  staircase. 

"Hello!  Who  is  it?  Oh,  good  evening,  Miss 
Fraenkel — yes,  do.  We're  not  going  out  to-night. 
How  long  will  you  be?    Right.    Good-bye." 

"She'll  be  up  in  half  an  hour,"  he  said,  going 
back  to  his  easel. 

I  was  by  no  means  certain  that  Miss  Fraenkel 
would  be  able  to  help  us  to  forecast  accurately  the 
future  instalments  of  the  Carville  history.  Of 
course  if  we  could  induce  her  to  assume  that  the 
painter-cousin's  strange  companion  was  Mr.  Car- 
ville's  brother,  she  might  begin  to  treat  the  subject 
with  the  necessary  seriousness.  But  I  had  no  hope 
of  this.  I  was  too  conscious  of  the  extreme  sub- 
tlety of  Mr.  Carville's  art  (we  may  grant  him  that 
now  in  advance)  to  thmk  that  we  could  transmit 
its  fascination  to  Miss  Fraenkel.  She  would  prob- 
ably be  astonished  at  the  continuance  of  our 
curiosity. 

She  was.  She  began,  the  moment  she  arrived, 
to  tell  us  the  vicissitudes  of  a  cause  to  which  she 
had  been  rapidly  and  earnestly  converted,  the 
cause  of  female  suffrage.  It  was  evident  that  her 
reason  for  calling  was  to  "let  off  steam,"  as  Mac 
irreverently  phrased  it  afterwards.  A  number  of 
millionaires'  daughters  had  drawn  upon  themselves 
the  eyes  of  the  world  by  tramping  on  foot  to  Wash- 
ington to  plead  for  the  vote.  Miss  Fraenkel's  eyes 
dilated  as  she  told  us.     We  had  seen  the  account 


ALIENS  109 

of  what  the  New  York  Daily  News  called  "The 
Hike  of  the  Golden  Girls,"  but  our  eyes  had  not 
dilated.  We  had  even  acrimoniously  hinted  that 
the  millionaires'  daughters  were  seeking  notoriety 
rather  than  a  relief  for  civil  disabilities  by  this 
undignified  tramp  across  New  Jersey  and  Mary- 
land. But  to  Miss  Fraenkel  we  said  nothing  of 
this.  Even  if  we  had  been  averse  to  Miss  Fraenkel 
having  a  vote,  we  would  have  said  nothing.  Only 
Bill  suggested  with  a  smile  that  the  leading  "hiker" 
need  not  have  offered  to  kiss  the  President  when  he 
good-humouredly  granted  them  an  interview.  Miss 
Fraenkel  could  not  see  it.  There  was  no  divinity 
that  she  knew  of  to  hedge  a  President  from  a 
kiss. 

"What  about  the  President's  wife?"  asked  Bill. 

"Why,   she's  one   of   us!"   cried   Miss   Fraenkel. 
"She  approves!" 
^    "Of  kissing  her  husband?"  asked  Bill. 

But  Miss  Fraenkel's  mind  was  fashioned  in  water- 
tight compartments.  She  could  not  switch  her  en- 
thusiasm from  the  vote  long  enough  to  appreciate 
this  lapse  from  good  taste.  Her  mind  did  not  work 
that  way.  We  would  have  to  begin  at  the  beginning 
and  lead  up  to  kissing  as  a  moral  or  immoral  act, 
before  she  could  give  it  any  serious  attention.  And 
when  she  asked  Bill  to  join  the  local  league  I  inter- 
posed, lest  the  harmony  of  the  evening  should  be 
violated. 

"We  want  your  vote  on  another  question,"  I 
said,  and  recounted  the  events  of  the  afternoon. 
She  listened  with  apparent  attention,  playing  with 


110  ALIENS 

a  string  of  beads  that  hung  round  her  neck.  Long 
before  I  finished  I  saw  she  was  ready  to  speak. 

"I'll  go  right  in  and  ask  her  if  she'll  join ! "  she  said. 

"They've  gone  to  Newark,"  said  Mac. 

"To-morrow,  then." 

"Well,"  said  Bill.  "Come  up  here  to-morrow. 
He's  coming  in  to  tell  us  some  more.  You'll  meet 
him  first  and  he  can  introduce  you  to  his  wife." 

"That'll  do  first  rate!  I'm  just  crazy  to  get  all 
the  members  I  can." 

The  conversation  rambled  on  irrelevantly  after 
that,  and  we  realized  that  for  Miss  Fraenkel  at 
least,  the  story  of  Mr.  Carville's  life  was  not  ab- 
sorbingly attractive.  We  enjoyed  her  visit,  as  we 
always  did,  but  her  influence,  in  her  present  pre- 
occupation, was  feverish  and  to  a  certain  slight 
degree  disturbing. 

The  problem  that  presented  itself  when  I  retired 
that  night  was  immaterial,  perhaps,  but  new.  I 
wondered  quietly  in  what  manner  Mr.  Carville 
would  regard  Miss  Fraenkel.  Doubtless  I  was 
over-exacting,  but  I  desired  to  discover,  in  our 
neighbour's  attitude  towards  the  lady,  some  clue 
to  his  attitude  towards  us.  I  felt  vaguely  that  his 
candour  was  not  at  all  a  mere  casual  fit  of  com- 
municativeness of  which  we  "just  happened"  to  be 
the  recipients.  If  this  were  the  case,  it  would 
infallibly  appear  in  his  manner  towards  our  vote- 
less friend.  It  would  be  .  .  .  but  no.  My  vanity 
did  not  carry  me  that  far.  The  vanity  of  a  man  of 
forty  is  generally  a  steed  broken  to  harness;  it  will 
not  prance  far  into  the  unknown.     I  decided  to 


ALIENS  111 

wait   until   Mr.    Carville   decided   the   matter   for 
himself. 


The  spectacle,  while  I  was  shaving  next  morning, 
of  Mr.  Carville  proceeding  sedately  down  Van 
Diemen's  Avenue  with  his  children,  gave  a  fresh 
vagueness  to  his  image  in  my  mind.  It  was  as 
though  a  hand  had  been  passed  over  the  picture, 
smudging  the  outlines  and  rendering  the  whole 
thing  of  dubious  value.  A  model  father!  In  my 
bewilderment  I  nearly  cut  myself.  And  yet,  sup- 
posing, as  I  had  been  supposing,  that  Mr.  Carville 
had  set  out  with  the  definite  object  of  contrasting 
himself  vividly  with  his  prodigal  brother,  would  he 
not  eventually  take  up  the  r61e  of  dutiful  parentage.'' 
The  extraordinary  thing  was  that  the  model  father 
should  be  also  the  artist. 

I  determined  to  abandon  the  Carville  problem 
for  an  hour  or  two  after  breakfast  in  favour  of 
Maupassant.  It  is  my  custom  to  read  once  a 
year  at  least,  the  chief  works  of  that  incomparable 
writer.  The  forenoon  of  our  Sunday  has  this  pe- 
culiarity: no  moral  obligation  to  work  is  imposed 
by  our  unwritten  laws.  If,  on  Sunday  morning,  I 
am  discovered  by  Bill  leisurely  turning  over  a 
pile  of  old  magazines,  or  reading  a  story,  I  am  not 
greeted  with  "Do  you  call  that  work?"  On  the 
contrary,  she  will  probably  sit  down  beside  me  and 
indulge  in  what  may  be  charitably  described  as 
gossip.  Mac,  too,  will  leave  his  palette  and  boards 
in  peace,  will  lie  luxuriantly  in  the  big  rocker,  or. 


112  ALIENS 

spade  on  shoulder,  disappear  among  the  shrubs  at 
the  lower  end  of  the  estate.  We  neglect  collars 
and  appear  brazenly  at  breakfast  in  shirt-sleeves  on 
Sunday  mornings.  It  is  for  us  a  day  of  rest  from 
the  insistent  badgering  of  ideas.  Our  minds  go 
into  ndglige;  we  forget  editors  and  advertising- 
managers  for  a  while.  Imagine  then  our  dismay 
when  I  reported  my  view  of  Mr.  Carville  in  his 
brushed  blue  serge  and  Derby  hat,  his  glazed  linen 
collar  and  dark  green  tie,  passing  sedately  down 
the  Avenue,  a  neat  child  in  each  hand.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  rift  in  this  man's  armour  of  re- 
spectability. He  seemed  determined  to  maintain  a 
great  and  terrible  contrast  between  his  inner  and 
outer  life.  O  supreme  artist!  I  stretched  myself 
on  my  sofa  and  opened  Maupassant: 

"  Monsieur,^ '  I  read .  * '  Doctor  James  Ferdinand  does 
not  exist,  hut  the  man  whose  eyes  you  saw  does,  and  you 
will  certainly  recognize  his  eyes.  This  man  has  committed 
two  crimes,  for  which  he  does  not  feel  any  remorse,  hut, 
as  a  'psychologist,  he  is  afraid  of  some  day  yielding  to 
the  irresistihle  temptation  of  confessing  his  crimes." 

I  laid  down  the  book,  drawn  by  the  aptness  of 
the  text  to  my  problem.  Had  Maupassant  given 
me  the  key  of  the  whole  enigma?  Was  this  aston- 
ishing genius,  who  had  so  wrought  upon  our  imag- 
inations, was  he  a  criminal  irresistibly  driven  to  tell 
us  the  story  of  his  evil  life?  Were  the  police  of 
Europe  and  America  even  now  scouring  the  surface 
of  the  globe  for  him?  That  brother,  that  dare- 
devil gentleman  of  the  painter-cousin's  letter,  was 
a  fitting  accomplice  for  him,  the  quiet,  unobtrusive. 


ALIENS  113 

impeccable  "seaman."  He  had  a  number,  what  was 
it?  Three-nine-  (fool  not  to  write  it  down!)  three- 
nine-something.  Was  that  his  number  during  his 
last  imprisonment?  Had  he  spoken  in  terrific  hyper- 
bole when  he  admitted  that  no  doubt  it  was  "a  pic- 
turesque life  "  ?  Good  God !  How  blind  we  had  been ! 
And  Miss  Fraenkel's  shot  in  the  dark,  was  it  after  all 
the  truth?    Had  he  really  been  "held  for  something"? 

I  let  my  pipe  go  out,  so  possessed  was  I,  tem- 
porarily, with  the  diabolical  possibility.  A  double 
knock  at  the  door  sent  the  blood  to  my  heart.  I 
rose,  and  passing  into  the  front  room  opened  the 
door.  Mr.  Carville  stood  in  the  porch  in  an  attitude 
of  profound  meditation.  The  sight  of  him,  phleg- 
matic and  isolated  from  all  emotion,  restored  the 
balance  of  my  mind  somewhat.  We  shook  hands  and 
he  still  stood  there,  trying  to  remember  something. 

"Another'fine  day,"  I  said.  "I  saw  you  out  early 
this  morning'." 

He  nodded  absently,  and  then  his  face  Kghtened. 

Somewhat  to  my  surprise,  if  any  further  surprise 
was  possible,  he  lifted  his  steady  grey-blue  eyes  to 
mine,  raised  his  right  hand  as  high  as  his  shoulder 
and  began  to  recite. 

"When  that  the  Knight  had  thus  his  tale  i-told. 
In  al  the  route  was  ther  young  ne  old 
That  he  ne  seyde  it  was  a  noble  story, 
And  worthy  to  be  drawen  to  memory." 

And  extending  a  finger  he  pointed  to  the  little  brass 
Canterbury  Pilgrim  that  served  us  for  a  knocker. 
"They  told  stories  too,  eh?"  he  said,  smiling. 


114  ALIENS 

"You  read  Chaucer?"  I  murmured,  moving  to 
a  chair  in  the  porch. 

"Why,  sure!"  he  said,  "don't  you?"  And  he 
took  out  his  pipe. 

I  did  not  pursue  the  subject,  even  when  I  had 
recovered  my  poise.  The  clever  apphcation  of  the 
Chaucerian  verse  to  his  own  case  was  crushing.  I 
said  nothing  of  it  to  Mac  when  he  appeared  with  a 
pair  of  shears  intended  for  the  borders. 

"Hullo,  Mr.  Carville,"  he  said.  "Come  to  finish 
the  story?    Wait  till  I  tell  the  wife." 

"Now  where's  the  hurry?"  said  our  neighbour, 
deprecatingly,  and  sitting  down  he  began  to  cut  up 
some  tobacco.  I  looked  across  at  New  York,  still 
surrounded  in  diaphanous  mist,  and  endeavoured  to 
adjust  my  mind  to  the  immediate  business.  Since 
dinner  the  night  before  I  had  been  indulging  in 
somewhat  frothy  speculation.  It  was  only  fair  that 
Mr.  Carville  should  have  the  floor  and  speak  for 
himself.  Bill  came  out  and  nodded  brightly.  None 
of  us  suggested  waiting  for  Miss  Fraenkel.  I  think 
we  were  anxious  to  hear  a  little  more  of  Mr.  Car- 
ville before  Miss  Fraenkel  arrived;  a  sort  of  pre- 
sentiment, if  you  like. 

"Do  tell  us  about  your  brother,  Mr.  Carville," 
said  Bill.    "What  happened  to  him?" 

Mr.  Carville  struck  a  match  and  puffed  away  in 
the  conscientious  manner  demanded  by  a  corn-cob. 

"W^hy,  of  course,"  he  said,  carefully  expelling  a 
}et  of  smoke  from  the  corner  of  his  closed  lips,  "he 
«ame  back,  my  brother  did." 

Bill  looked  at  him  in  tragic  annoyance. 


CHAPTER  Vin 
He  Continues  His  Tale 

*'  "W"T  was  like  this,"  he  went  on.    "Apart  from  a 

I     general  dislike  of  doing  things  that  boys  con- 

M     sider  'bad  form'  my  brother  had  no  scruples 

at  all.    For  instance,  if  a  stranger  cheeks  you, 

you  feel  as  if  you'd  like  to  hit  him.     My  young 

brother  did  hit  him.     What  was  still  more  to  his 

advantage  he  gave  people  the  impression  that  he 

was  always  ready  to  jump  over  the  table  at  them. 

My  impression  is  that  the  old  Head  didn't  dare 

flog  him  and  had  been  glad  to  find  an  excuse  to  get 

rid  of  him.    It  didn't  occur  to  the  old  chap  that  my 

brother  wouldn't  come  home.     He  Httle  knew  my 

brother! 

"Several  days  passed  and  we  began  to  get  anxious. 
My  mother  telegraphed  the  Head  and  the  railway 
company.  No  good.  Now  it's  all  very  well  for 
well-meaning  people  to  say  *tell  the  police,'  but 
when  you  are  up  against  a  private  disgrace,  you 
think  pretty  hard  before  you  walk  into  a  police 
station.  My  brother  was  fifteen  and  big  for  his 
age.  Why,  he  might  disguise  himself  anyhow.  The 
week-end  came  before  we  made  up  our  minds  that 
the  police  would  have  to  be  notified.  I  went  to 
Scotland  Yard  on  the  Saturday  afternoon  with  a 
reward  and  description.  I  don't  pretend  that  I  felt 
very  anxious  about  him.  He  had  never  sought 
either   my   friendship   or   my   protection,   and   we 

115 


116  ALIENS 

looked  at  life  from  totally  different  angles.  To  me 
there  was  something  common  and  dirty  about  an 
intrigue  with  a  school-slavey.  My  brother,  I 
thought,  should  have  been  above  that  sort  of  thing. 
But  he  wasn't  and  he  never  has  been.  With  him  a 
woman  is  just  a  woman.  He  raises  his  hand  and 
they  come  running,  and  apologizing  if  they're  late. 
So  after  I  had  been  to  Scotland  Yard,  I  stayed  down 
West,  went  to  a  theatre  and  looked  in  at  El  Vino 
for  a  glass  of  port  afterwards.  El  Vino  in  those 
days  had  a  curious  reputation,  quite  different  from 
the  Continental  or  the  Leicester  Lounge.  No  one 
would  ever  suggest  you  were  a  loose  fish  because 
you  drank  a  dock-glass  in  El  Vino,  though  there 
were  women  there  everj'  night.  Just  as  I  was 
lifting  the  glass  some  one  gave  me  a  slap  on  the 
back.    It  was  my  young  brother. 

"'Hullo,  Charley!'  he  says.    'Fancy  you  here.' 

"'What  are  you  doing  here.'*'  I  asked  him.  I 
realized  he  was  as  tall  as  I  was.  'WTiy  aren't  you.  at 
home? ' 

"'I'm  coming  home  with  you,  Charley  boy,'  he 
says,  looking  round  at  the  girls.  'All  the  old  talent 
here,  you  see!' 

"I  own  frankly  I  was  disgusted.  I  was  so  dis- 
gusted I  never  went  into  that  place  again.  We 
got  the  12.20  at  King's  Cross  and  it  was  a  quarter 
past  one  in  the  morning  before  we  arrived  at  our 
house.  Here  was  a  nice  state  of  things;  the  elder 
son  finding  his  fifteen-year-old  brother  in  El  Vino, 
and  coming  home  with  the  milk.  That  was  my 
brother's  way  all  along.    He  made  everjiJiing  I  do 


ALIENS  117 

seem  a  black  sin.  I  left  him  to  tell  his  own  story 
and  turned  in. 

"The  next  morning  he  went  on  the  carpet.  My 
mother  gave  him  a  pretty  hot  talking  to.  She 
told  him  he  was  a  disgrace  to  the  name  of  Carville, 
that  he'd  begmi  bad  and  would  go  to  worse.  She 
asked  him  how  she  was  ever  to  get  him  into  a 
position  if  he  left  school  like  that  and  for  such  a 
reason.  He  took  out  a  cigarette-case  and  helped 
himself.  'No  need  to  worry,  mater,*  says  he,  'I've 
got  a  position  already.* 

"And  so  he  had!  He'd  gone  into  the  city  and 
got  a  position  in  a  big  wholesale  house  as  a  clerk. 
Ask  me  how  he  did  it  and  all  I  can  say  is  'Person- 
ality.' He  could  do  anything  with  anybody.  There 
he  was,  iifteen,  with  a  guinea  a  week  to  start.  And 
I  was  twenty-two  and  only  getting  a  few  shillings 
more. 

"After  the  first  shock  my  mother  resigned  her- 
self to  the  inevitable  and  hoped  for  the  best.  And 
for  a  couple  of  years  we  managed  to  rub  along 
without  any  scandals.  In  our  several  ways,  my 
brother  and  I  were  busy  with  life,  as  far  as  we  knew 
it.  He  went  up  to  the  city  every  day,  and  played 
football  and  cricket,  but  the  serious  business  of 
his  life  was  girls.  He  seemed  to  have  hundreds. 
If  I  saw  him  in  the  Strand,  on  Saturday,  he  would 
be  with  three  or  four.  If  I  met  him  on  Hadley 
Common,  on  Sunday,  he  would  have  three  or  four 
there,  but  fresh  ones.  He  had  them  in  the  trains, 
he  lunched  with  them  in  the  city.  Barring  the  few 
hours  he  spent  in  our  house  at  night  he  lived  chiefly 


118  ALIENS 

on  girls.  There  were  a  score  or  so  in  the  house 
where  he  worked,  a  wholesale  business  in  Wood 
Street.  It  was  a  mania,  you  might  say;  but  it  was 
the  girls  who  had  the  mania,  not  he.  He  spent  all 
his  money  as  he  got  it  on  them,  he  borrowed  more 
and  spent  that.  One  thing  particularly  annoyed 
me  just  about  this  time,  and  that  was  his  free  way 
of  borrowing  my  clothes  when  they  fitted  him. 
Vests  and  ties  especially.  You  may  think  it  a 
trivial  matter,  but  to  me  there  was  something 
exasperating  in  seeing  one's  brother  on  a  park  seat 
in  the  dusk,  with  his  girl's  head  leaning  on  one's 
own  fancy  vest!  He  would  just  shy  whatever  he 
had  borrowed  on  the  bed  and  leave  me  to  pick 
the  hair  off  it.  What  they  call  a  Superman^  I  be- 
lieve, nowadays.    I  had  another  name  for  him. 

"Apart  from  these  annoyances,  I  was  sliding 
along  a  well-oiled  groove  in  life.  It  generally 
happens  that  a  young  man  in  such  a  position  as 
mine  marries  and  settles  down  for  good.  Now  it 
may  have  been  that  my  brother's  wholesale  deal- 
ings with  girls  threw  me  to  the  other  extreme.  I 
don't  think  that  had  much  to  do  with  it.  I  think, 
now,  that  I  had  a  natural  bend  towards  Culture. 

"Don't  misunderstand  me,"  said  Mr.  Carville. 
**I  use  that  word  without  any  doubt  of  what  it 
means.  I  know  George  Du  Manner's  sneers.  Cul- 
ture means  an  instinct  for  the  best.  I  had  that.  I 
have  it  now. 

"I  don't  say  that  culture  is  opposed  to  marriage. 
That  would  be  nonsense.  But  it  may  seriously 
interfere    with    marriage.      A    young    man    in    the 


ALIENS  119 

twenties  has  no  irresistible  desire  for  matrimony. 
As  a  rule  I  mean.  And  if  sport  or  business  or,  as 
in  my  case,  study,  takes  up  his  attention,  he  will 
put  it  off  for  a  while.  That's  what  happened  to  me. 
I  had  access  to  books.  I  had  an  easy  job  and  no 
great  responsibihty.  I  knew  nothing  about  the 
world  really;  I  only  read  about  it  in  books.  It 
seemed  to  me  a  splendid  thing  to  be  a  learned  man. 
I  became  a  book-worm,  reading  several  hours  a 
day.  What  was  I  aiming  at?  Upon  my  soul  I 
can't  say.  It  was  just  blind  instinct  leading  me 
on  to  read  the  books  that  since  then  have  become 
part  of  me. 

"My  work  was,  as  I  said,  light.  The  firm  I  was 
with  were  specialists  in  certain  machinery,  and  I 
was  assistant  to  the  London  manager.  I  had  to 
plan  out  and  make  estimates  for  various  plants, 
and  travel  about  the  south  of  England  getting 
orders  and  superintending  erection.  I  can  tell  you 
it  just  suited  me,  those  journeys  by  train.  I  always 
had  my  book  with  me,  and  as  soon  as  I  had  been 
over  a  job,  I  forgot  all  about  contracts  and  went 
back  to  Pater,  or  Gibbon  or  Flaubert  or  Emerson, 
whoever  I  happened  to  be  reading.  In  the  evenings 
I  used  to  try  and  imitate  what  I  had  read. 

"But  what  could  I  write?  What  did  I  know? 
Nothing!  I  had  never  been  anywhere,  I  had  never 
met  anybody  in  particular,  I  had  never  been  in 
love.  I  had  never  waked  up.  I  was  in  a  sort  of 
trance,  surrounded  by  the  traditions  of  the  genteel 
professional  class.  Of  course,  in  a  dim  way  I  knew 
that  my  mother  expected  me  to  be  something  ex- 


120  ALIENS 

ceptional,  but  I  was  too  comfortable  to  make  any 
effort.  It  seemed  to  me  I  was  quite  unconventional 
enough  in  being  such  a  reader  and  in  keeping  clear 
of  girls.  I  wonder  where  I  would  have  landed, 
supposing  I  had  never  waked  up. 

"My  brother  was  going  his  way  all  this  time, 
when  all  of  a  sudden  he  roused  me  up  again.  For 
a  long  time  he  had  been  earning  twenty-five  shil- 
lings a  week  and  spending  forty,  and  my  mother  had 
been  making  good  the  deficit.  She  had  just  given 
him  a  five-pound  note  to  pay  for  his  quarterly 
season-ticket  on  the  railway.  He  didn't  pay  it. 
Just  went  on  travelling  to  the  city  with  the  old  one. 
Of  course,  a  lot  of  people  had  done  that  trick  and 
the  Company  were  wise  to  it.  My  brother  was 
caught  and  summoned  before  the  Lord  Mayor  at 
the  Mansion  House.  You  can  believe  my  mother 
was  distressed.  It  wouldn't  have  been  so  bad  if  he 
had  only  held  his  tongue  and  let  her  pay  the  forty 
shillings  fine  and  costs.  No!  he  had  to  give  the 
Lord  Mayor  a  piece  of  his  mind.  And  that  made 
the  evening  papers  feature  the  amusing  incident,  as 
they  call  it. 

"I  must  admit  the  boy  made  out  a  very  good 
case.  He  told  the  Court  his  father,  his  brother 
and  himself  had  been  travelling  over  the  line  for 
something  like  sixteen  years.  Altogether  we  had 
paid  the  railways  two  hundred  pounds  in  fares. 
'Now,'  says  he  to  the  Court,  'if  I  had  done  two 
hundred  pounds  worth  of  business  with  a  firm,  they 
wouldn't  be  down  on  me  for  being  a  day  or  two  late 
with  a  small  account  of  five  pounds,  would  they? 


ALIENS  121 

They'd  be  glad  to  accommodate  me.  But  the  rail- 
way wants  to  put  me  in  prison.'  Well,  the  Lord 
Mayor  happened  to  be  a  shareholder  in  the  railway, 
and  of  course  he  couldn't  admit  that  at  all.  He 
fined  him  the  regulation  forty  shillings  and  several 
pounds  cost.  But  as  I  said,  this  peculiar  argument 
of  my  brother's  got  the  case  into  a  prominent  posi- 
tion and  everybody  saw  it.  His  employers  saw  it 
and  cashiered  him  the  next  morning.  My  uncle, 
who  lived  at  Surbiton,  saw  it  and  wrote  to  my 
mother. 

"The  first  I  saw  of  it  was  in  the  papers.  I  re- 
member feeling  sick  and  giddy  all  over  when  I 
saw  our  name  in  the  police  court  news.  '  The 
Seamy  Side*  they  called  it.  When  I  got  home  my 
brother  and  my  mother  were  having  it  out.  He 
didn't  care.  It  was  all  over  for  him,  he  admitted. 
Better  let  him  start  afresh  somewhere  else.  My 
mother  wanted  to  send  him  to  Canada,  where  she 
had  relatives,  but  he  said  he'd  be  damned  if  he  went 
to  Canada.  He  was  sick  of  clerking.  What  did  he 
want  to  do?  I  asked  him.  He  said  he  was  going  in 
for  engineering.  I  smiled  at  this,  and  he  rounded 
on  me.  *0h  I  don't  mean  your  engineering,'  he 
says.  *I  mean  something  that's  worth  while.'  Very 
sneering  he  was. 

"Well,  do  you  know  what  he  did?  He  got  fifty 
pounds  out  of  my  mother  to  start  with  and  disap- 
peared. That's  all.  Simply  vanished  without  a 
word.  In  a  way  it  was  a  relief.  We  gave  out  that 
he  had  gone  to  Canada  and  the  scandal  died  down. 
A  month  later  my  uncle  wrote  and  mentioned  that 


122  ALIENS 

Frank  had  called  on  him  and  borrowed  fifty  pounds 
to  go  to  New  Zealand  with.  I  don't  know  how  he 
managed  to  do  it,  for  my  uncle  doesn't  let  go  easy 
at  all.  He  has  had  to  work  for  his  money  too  hard. 
Personality,  I  suppose.  If  my  brother  had  had  a 
five-minute  personal  interview  with  the  Lord  Mayor 
I  daresay  he  would  have  got  the  old  chap  to  pay 
the  fine  for  him. 

"After  this  little  brush-up  my  mother  and  I 
jogged  along  for  a  few  years  as  quiet  as  before. 
I  was  still  in  my  job  as  manager's  assistant,  and 
still  reading  away  into  the  classics.  I  was  about 
twenty-five  when  all  my  ideas  and  prejudices  slid 
away  over  side  and  I  found  I  had  got  the  disease 
we  call  love.    It  nearly  killed  me." 

Mr.  Carville  paused  and  leaned  over  to  knock 
his  pipe  against  the  geranium-tub.  We  did  not  in- 
terrogate him.  There  was  something  numbing  to 
me  in  the  thought  of  this  quiet  ordinary  little  man 
telling  us  in  a  quiet  matter-of-fact  tone  that  love 
had  nearly  killed  him.  We  had  no  comment  worthy 
of  the  fact.  He  looked  across  the  valley  for  a  mo- 
ment as  though  lost  in  retrospection. 

"She  came  home  from  a  convent  in  Brussels," 
he  continued,  feeling  for  his  little  brass  box,  "and 
to  use  the  slang  of  our  professional  class,  her  people 
knew  my  people.  That  was  the  way  we  talked.  If 
a  thing  was  good,  we  called  it  *  ripping.'  If  it  was 
unpleasant,  we  said  it  was  'beastly.'  I  believe  the 
slang  has  changed  since  then,  but  the  silly  artificial 
spirit  of  it  will  never  change.  Why  can't  educated 
people  speak  English? 


ALIENS  123 

"She  came  home  from  a  convent  in  Brussels. 
Her  home  was  about  a  mile  off,  a  big  house  in  East 
Barnet,  and  she  called  with  her  mother  one  day 
when  I  happened  to  come  home  from  a  journey 
early.    She  gave  me  a  look.   .    .    . 

"You  see,  she  wasn't  beautiful.  She  was  well 
dressed  and  well-mannered  and  she  had  grey  eyes. 
Beyond  that  I  haven't  any  distinct  memory  of  what 
she  was  like.  And  the  astounding  thing  to  me, 
when  I  look  back  on  that  business,  is  the  utter  lack 
of  any  common  interests.  How  could  I  expect  her 
to  take  any  notice  of  me?  I  was  a  book-worm.  I 
couldn't  do  any  of  the  social  tricks  she  admired. 
I  knew  as  much  about  music  as  a  cow,  and  con- 
sidered tennis  a  bore.  And  yet  I  wanted  her.  I 
wanted  that  eighteen-year-old  girl  as  I've  never 
wanted  anything  since.  I  made  myself  a  door-mat 
for  her  feet,  I  took  her  impudence  and  said  nothing, 
I  waited  for  her  and  made  no  complaint  when  she 
forgot  to  keep  an  appointment.  My  mother  saw 
it  and  did  her  best  to  help  me  (though  it  wasn't 
much),  for  she  wanted  me  to  get  married.  This 
would  have  been  a  good  match,  for  it  so  happened 
that  'her  people'  were  in  a  position  to  advance  me 
in  my  profession,  as  I  called  it. 

"And  strange  to  say,  my  persistence  did  make 
some  impression.  I  did  make  some  headway.  I 
chucked  my  books  to  one  side,  went  in  for  tennis, 
and  even  took  girls  up  the  river  to  Kingston  and 
Bourne  End,  she  being  one  of  them.  It  made  a 
hole  in  the  little  bank  account  I  had  started,  but  I 
suppose  it  was  worth  it.    I  met  a  lot  of  pretty  girls; 


124  ALIENS 

but  I  was  not  after  a  pretty  girl;  I  was  after  her. 
The  river  was  a  lot  in  my  favour,  I  believe.  It  so 
happened  that  Belvoir's  young  brother,  a  Charter- 
house boy,  whom  I  knew  slightly,  nearly  ran  our 
punt  down  one  Saturday  with  his  launch.  It  made 
a  big  impression  on  Gladys,  my  knowdng  young 
Belvoir.  You  see  she  had  been  at  school  with 
Belvoir's  cousin,  so  it  all  worked  in.  In  a  way  I 
suppose  I  was  happy  .  .  .  yes,  it's  a  wonderful 
thing,  a  tremendous  thing  to  be  in  love;  but  all 
the  same,  I  wouldn't  like  to  go  through  it  again!    '. 

"So  it  stood,  when  one  day  in  the  autumn,  the 
whole  thing  capsized.    My  brother  came  back. 

"He  didn't  come  back  like  any  other  prodigal 
I  ever  heard  of.  No,  he  came  back  in  his  own  way, 
like  a  conquering  hero,  which  he  was.  He  came 
back  on  an  automobile. 

"You  laugh.f^  But  you  must  remember  that  in 
those  days  there  weren't  fifty  automobiles  in  Eng- 
land. When  my  brother  came  up  the  London 
Road  with  a  whiz  and  a  bang,  a  long  trail  of  blue 
stench  coming  out  of  the  back  of  the  machine,  I 
really  think  that  was  the  third  or  foiu-th  time  I  had 
ever  seen  such  a  thing.  Well,  there  he  was,  a  great 
big  chap  with  a  hooked  nose  and  flashing  black 
eyes  behind  the  goggles.  Where  had  he  been.'^ 
Neither  to  Canada  nor  to  New  Zealand.  He'd 
been  to  France.  He'd  gone  there  and  learned  the 
motor-car  business  in  one  of  the  first  shops  ever 
built.  Picked  it  up  you  may  say,  as  he  picked 
everything  up, 'but  he  got  it  none  the  less.  He'd 
seen  the  possibilities  of  the  thing,  and  here  he  was 


ALIENS  125 

appointed  London  agent  for  the  French  firm  at 
three  hundred  a  year.  He  laughed  when  he  saw 
me.  'Hullo,  Charley!'  he  sneers.  'How's  the  puff- 
puffs?'  He  sneered  at  everything  about  me.  I  had 
learned  to  read  French  pretty  well  and  knew  my  clas- 
sics in  the  original,  but  here  was  my  young  brother 
sneering  at  me  in  French  argot  which  he  knew  I 
couldn't  resent  because  I  couldn't  understand  it. 

*'He  would  come  down  to  the  tennis  club  that 
evening,  though  I  didn't  want  him.  Somehow  I 
dreaded  introducing  him  to  Gladys.  There  was  no 
need  for  me  to  worry.  He  introduced  himself.  In 
another  five  minutes  he  was  talking  French  with 
her,  and  she  was  screaming  with  laughter  at  the 
stories  he  told  her.    He  saw  her  home   .    .    . 

"You  can  understand  that  the  next  day  I  was 
in  a  bad  condition  for  work.  And  it  so  happened 
that  I  had  a  job  that  needed  all  the  concentration 
I  could  give  it.  I  don't  remember  a  single  detail 
of  it.  I  had  been  neglecting  my  work  then,  like  all 
young  chaps  in  love,  but  on  this  occasion  I  made  a 
costly  mistake.  I  marked  the  driving  pulley  on  a 
line-shaft  a  foot  too  small.  The  aggravating  part 
was  I  sent  it  to  the  head  office  in  Yorkshire  without 
revising  it  and  they  got  on  to  my  boss.  He  took 
the  bit  in  his  teeth  and  went  for  me.  He  gave  me 
a  week  to  find  another  job.    I  was  'down  and  out.' 

"I  was  paralyzed  for  a  while.  I  didn't  know 
where  to  turn.  The  bottom  had  dropped  out  of 
my  world  for  good  and  all.  Another  job!  Why,  I 
knew  men  in  that  employ  who  had  held  their  jobs 
for  forty  years. 


126  ALIENS 

*'I  said  nothing  about  it  at  home.  My  brother, 
with  his  three  hundred  a  year  and  his  French  argot, 
made  home  unbearable  and  I  thought  of  clearing 
out  of  it.  But  where  could  I  go?  You  see,  if  you 
work  for  some  speciahst  for  a  number  of  years, 
the  only  job  you  can  move  to  is  a  position  with 
another  specialist  of  the  same  line.  And  this  busi- 
ness I  was  in  was  run  by  about  six  big  firms. 

"Still,  the  thought  of  clearing  out  held  me.  I 
saw  that  if  my  brother  was  going  to  live  at  home, 
I'd  have  to  go.  And  Saturday  came  round  and 
found  me  w^ondering  what  to  do. 

"At  times  I  used  to  go  over  to  my  uncle's  at 
Surbiton.  It  was  my  duty  to  pay  respects,  so  to 
speak.  His  family  had  a  grudge  against  my  mother, 
because  if  my  father  hadn't  married  her,  they  would 
have  inherited  his  money,  so  that  there  was  not 
much  love  lost  between  them.  But  occasionally  my 
old  uncle  would  ring  me  up  and  ask  me  to  go  down 
with  him.  He  did  this  Saturday  I  speak  of,  and  as 
there  was  no  one  else  in  my  office  at  the  time  I  told 
him  my  trouble.    And  he  laughed !    Humph ! 

"The  inhuman  old  shell-back  laughed!  And  yet, 
if  you'll  believe  me,  when  I  heard  the  old  chap 
rumbling  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire,  it  cheered 
me  up.  I  began  to  think,  *Why,  he  may  have  in- 
fluence. He  may  get  me  a  job.'  You  see  the  vicious 
state  of  mind  of  the  professional  class!  When  I 
mentioned  the  possibility  to  him,  he  said,  'I  can 
get  you  a  job  all  right.  How'd  you  like  to  go  to 
sea?' 

"I  nearly  dropped  the  receiver  when  he  said  that. 


ALIENS  127 

Go  to  sea!    People  in  residential  suburbs  didn't  go 
to  sea! 

"'Eh?' I  said.  ^Whatd'youmean?' 
"'What  I  said,'  he  bellows.  'Go  to  sea.' 
'*'I'll  come  round  and  talk  to  you,'  I  said. 
"I  went  round  and  found  him  in  the  office.  He 
was  a  fierce  old  chap,  burnt  black  with  sun,  and 
with  hair  grey  as  the  sea.  He  was  enjoying  his  life 
apparently,  bossing  things  in  that  office.  But  he 
told  me  at  once  that  he  could  do  no  more  than  give 
me  a  chance  to  start  at  the  bottom.  I  must  work 
up  and  pass  the  Board  of  Trade  tests  for  each 
grade.  I  give  him  credit  for  painting  the  picture 
as  dark  as  he  could.  He  even  suggested  I  should 
try  and  get  another  draughtsman's  job  if  I  was 
afraid  of  going  through  the  mill.  But  I  didn't 
know  enough  to  be  afraid,  and  asked  him  off-hand 
when  he  would  need  me. 

"'We  don't  need  you,'  he  said,  as  if  surprised. 
*We  can  get  a  couple  of  thousand  young  fellows 
to-morrow  if  we  want  them.    It's  up  to  you.' 

"That  was  the  first  slap  in  the  face.  I  sat  there 
in  that  great  gloomy  vault  of  an  office  in  Fenchurch 
Street,  looking  at  the  half-models  of  ships  and  a 
map  of  the  docks  at  Monte  Video  on  the  walls,  and 
wondering  what  I  should  do.  I  was  not  hesitating, 
you  understand,  because  of  pride.  No,  that  was 
gone.  My  brother,  when  he  saw  Gladys  home,  had 
done  for  that.  It  was  more  like  a  fear  gripping  at 
me.  I  was  scared  at  letting  go  of  my  professional 
easy-going  life.  I'd  never  been  on  a  ship  since 
I'd   been   born   on   one.      I   knew   nothing   about 


128  ALIENS 

marine  engineering.  I  hesitated  because  I  was 
afraid. 

"'When  shall  I  start .'^'  I  asked  after  a  while. 

"'The  Corydon's  in  the  river  now,'  said  my  uncle. 
'They  want  a  Fourth:  can  you  get  down  to-night.'*' 

"'To-night!'  I  said.    'I've  not  given  notice  yet!' 

'"Phone  from  here,'  he  says. 

"'But  I've  nothing  packed,'  I  whimpered.  And 
he  laughed. 

"I  know  now  why  he  laughed.  Partly  because 
a  landsman  is  always  rather  a  comic  figure  to  a 
sailor,  partly  because  he  knew  how  I  had  been 
brought  up.  He  had  never  agreed  with  the  theory 
of  gentility  which  had  taken  such  a  hold  of  my 
mother.  He  was  as  out  of  place  in  his  Surbiton 
home  as  a  bear  in  a  back-yard.  His  daughters,  my 
cousins,  couldn't  make  him  see  the  importance,  in 
England,  of  gentility.  When  he  and  my  father  and 
all  the  rest  of  them  had  been  boj^s  on  that  New 
England  farm,  they  had  had  to  clear  stones  off 
the  land.  No  stones,  no  dinner.  And  now  he  had  a 
house  in  Surbiton,  and  was  laughing  at  me,  who 
had  never  lifted  a  stone  in  my  life.  Even  in  the 
works  where  I  was  a  pupil  we  had  always  had  a 
little  private  lavatory  to  wash  and  change  in.  He 
laughed  at  me.  He  believed  one  trip  would  be 
enough  for  me.  He  didn't  believe  for  a  minute  that 
I  would  stick  to  it. 

"But  I  was  making  up  my  mind.  Somehow  or 
other,  in  spite  of  my  twenty-five  years  in  cotton- 
wool, I  had  imagination  enough  to  see  in  my  uncle's 
weather-beaten  old  face  something  that  was  not  in 


ALIENS  129 

the  city  faces  I  saw  every  day.  He  had  come  into 
London  out  of  an  alien  world.  Then,  I  argued, 
there  are  other  worlds  beside  this  one!  I  had  not 
realized  it  before!  All  the  time  I  was  snug  in  my 
little  job  in  Victoria  Street  men  were  out  on  the 
sea,  out  in  the  heat  and  cold  and  wet,  living  in  a 
totally  different  world  to  mine.  You  may  think  it 
a  foolish  and  common  enough  idea,  but  to  me  it 
was  dazzling,  blinding.  It  took  hold  of  me.  I 
could  think  of  nothing  else.  I  said,  'I'll  go,  but  I 
can't  go  to-night,  I've  nothing  to  wear.'  So  my 
uncle  told  me  to  go  to  Cardiff  and  meet  the  Corydon 
at  Barry  Dock. 

"'What's  she  like?'  I  said,  standing  up.  He 
took  me  into  another  office,  and  showed  me  a  beau- 
tiful model  of  a  steamer. 

"'There  she  is,'  he  says.  *  That's  the  old  Cory- 
don. I  commanded  her  for  three  years.'  I  can 
tell  you  I  was  pleased  to  think  I  was  going  to  sea 
in  such  a  fine  ship.    Humph ! 

"I  went  home  and  had  a  talk  with  my  mother. 
All  her  ideas  were  capsized  too.  Here  was  her  elder 
son,  the  quiet,  studious,  respectable  elder  son,  out 
of  employment,  wliile  her  harum-scarum  disobedient 
Frank  was  getting  three  hundred  a  year  and  with 
good  prospects.  She  was  all  bewildered  by  it.  You 
can't  blame  her.  She  looked  at  me  when  I  told  her 
what  I  was  going  to  do.  'Take  plenty  of  socks,* 
she  said,  quietly.  'You'll  need  them  at  sea.'  And 
I  suddenly  remembered  she'd  done  the  very  same 
thing  I  was  to  do,  long  ago;  broken  out  of  her  life 
and  made  a  fresh  start — on  the  sea. 


130  ALIENS 

"And  what  had  happened  to  me?  You'll  think 
I  was  a  pretty  cheap  sort  of  a  lover  to  let  my  brother 
cut  me  out  so  easy  as  that.  You'll  say  I  never 
really  loved  her.  Who  can  tell  that?  Who  can  say 
how  much  or  how  little  he  loves?  Yes,  yes,  I  loved 
her.  But  what,  I  ask  you,  is  the  use  of  a  man 
mooning  his  life  away  for  a  girl  who  has  never  given 
him  a  minute's  thought?  It  is  a  waste  of  time  and 
energy  and  life.  WTien  that  view  of  worlds  outside 
of  mine  broke  on  me  the  love-trance  broke.  I  said 
to  myself:  'I  am  young;  I  will  go  out  and  see  things.* 
Well,  I  went  out  and  I  saw  things,  and  I  don't  re- 
gret it.  But  there's  one  thing  we  never  see  again, 
and  that's  the  illusion  of  first  love. 

"I  begged  my  mother  to  say  nothing  to  Frank 
about  me  until  I  was  gone,  and  a  day  or  two  later 
I  slipped  away  to  Paddington  with  a  couple  of 
grips  and  took  the  train  to  Barry  Docks.  It  will 
give  you  an  idea  of  the  quiet  life  I  had  led  when  I 
tell  you  this  was  my  first  long  journey.  I  had  been 
to  places  w^ithin  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  of 
London,  but  never  farther.  I  felt  lost  when  they 
turned  me  out  on  the  platform  at  Barry  in  the 
rain  and  dark.  A  sea-port  is  not  a  very  attractive 
place  to  a  landsman. 

"The  next  twenty-four  hours  were  strenuous  for 
me.  More  than  once  I  wondered  if  I  could  live 
through  it.  When  I  got  to  the  dock  I  walked  up 
and  down  looking  for  a  ship  that  resembled  the 
model  of  the  Corydon.  There  weren't  any.  I  asked 
a  man  in  a  blue  frock-coat  if  the  Corydon  had  come 
in. 


ALIENS  131 

***Aye,'  says  he.  *Here  she  is,  just  abaft  of  ye,' 
and  he  pointed  to  a  rusty,  dirty  old  tub  with  a 
battered  funnel  and  a  bridge  all  blocked  with 
hatches.  That  the  beautiful  shiny  Corydon?  There 
was  the  name  on  her  stern — Corydon,  London.  She 
was  loading  coal  from  a  big  elevator.  Her  decks 
were  piled  high  with  it,  and  where  there  wasn't 
coal  there  was  mud,  black  oozy  mud,  and  ashes 
and  ropes  and  soppy  hatches.  I  climbed  up  the 
ladder  and  one  by  one  got  my  grips  aboard.  And 
I  stood  there  in  the  rain,  my  gloves  all  black  with 
the  coal  on  the  ladder,  my  nice  mackintosh  barred 
with  it,  and  my  boots  slipping  on  the  iron  plates. 
No  one  took  any  notice  of  me.  Men  went  to  and 
fro  in  oilskins  and  shouted,  but  they  didn't  seem  to 
see  me.  Just  for  a  moment  I  thought  of  bolting! 
Humph ! 

"Finally  I  spoke  to  one  of  the  men,  saying  I  had 
a  letter  for  the  chief  engineer.  He  took  me  round 
into  a  dark  alleyway  under  the  bridge-deck  aft  and 
shouted  down:  'Here  comes  the  Second,'  he  says. 
'He'll  fix  ye.' 

"Well,  he  came  up,  that  Second  did,  not  very 
pleased  at  being  disturbed.  'What  is  it.'''  he  says. 
He  was  grease  from  head  to  foot,  as  though  some 
one  had  been  rolling  him  in  a  sewer. 

"'I'm  the  Fourth  Engineer,'  I  said.  *0h,  are  ye,' 
says  he,  'I  thought  ye  were  comin'  this  mornin'. 
Better  get  a  boiler-suit  on  and  give  a  hand.  We're 
goin'  to  sea  to-morrow  noon.' 

"He  took  me  along  the  alleyway  and  unlocked  a 
door.     'There,'  says  he,  'there's  your  room.     Ye 


132  ALIENS 

share  wi'  the  Third.'  It  was  a  smelly  little  hole,  and 
so  dark  I  could  scarcely  make  out  the  bunks. 

*"I  haven't  a  boUer-suit  with  me,'  I  said,  and  he 
looked  at  me.  He  was  a  younger  man  than  I  was, 
and  I  felt  it  would  be  strange  to  have  to  take  orders 
from  him.  'Oh,'  he  says,  'you're  about  my  size, 
I'll  lend  you  one.'  I  couldn't  help  thinking  as  he 
went  into  his  berth  next  to  ours,  that  if  he  was  the 
Second  and  I  was  the  Fourth,  what  on  earth  would 
I  be  like  when  we  got  to  sea.^^ 

"And  then  he  took  me  down  below. 

"That  was  my  introduction  to  my  new  career. 
No  handshakes,  no  good  night's  rest^ — nothing.  I 
got  into  the  Second's  boiler-suit  and  followed  him 
down.  We  had  to  work  all  night.  The  Third  was 
down  there  all  the  time  under  the  boilers.  He  was 
an  old  chap;  must  have  been  sixty,  with  a  mous- 
tache that  was  dirty  brown  at  the  tips  and  grey  at 
the  roots,  and  a  crease  down  each  of  his  cheeks  that 
was  always  twitching  while  he  chewed.  He  was 
lying  on  his  side  in  a  puddle  of  water,  a  slush  lamp 
close  to  his  head,  working  a  ratchet-drill  into  the 
shell  of  the  boiler.  I  had  to  crawl  in  alongside  of 
him  and  help  him.  Me!  And  I'd  been  writing 
'fitters'  instructions'  in  the  office  for  three  years. 
It  was  a  come-down. 

"■^And  yet,  something  inside  of  me  responded  to 
the  call.  Say  it  was  romance  if  you  hke,  say  it  was 
sentiment,  say  it  was  just  foolishness.  Something 
inside  of  me  answered  to  the  call.  We  worked  all 
that  night,  patching  that  bad  plate  on  the  boiler. 
The  other  boilers  were  under  steam,  so  you  can 


ALIENS  133 

believe  it  was  hot  down  under  there.  My  hands 
were  all  soft  with  office  work,  and  in  the  first  few 
hours  I  got  cuts  all  over  them,  and  the  salt  of  the 
boiler-seams  got  into  them  and  made  them  raw. 
What  a  time  it  was!  It  wasn't  long  before  I  was 
as  dirty  as  the  rest  of  them.  I  forgot  all  about 
time  or  food  or  sleep;  just  fetched  and  carried  as 
I  was  told.  Once  the  Second,  who  was  screwing 
the  holes  we  drilled,  asked  me  if  I  had  been  to  sea 
before.  I  said  'No,'  and  both  of  them  said  'Oh 
Lord!'  I  can't  blame  them  now.  I've  said  it 
myself  smce,  when  I've  found  a  new  starter  on  my 
hands. 

"The  Chief  came  down  about  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning  and  looked  through  the  hole  in  the  boiler 
casing.  He  was  a  little  man  with  a  glass  eye.  *Is 
the  Fourth  there.?'  he  says,  sucking  at  his  pipe. 
*Yes,'  I  said,  and  he  raps  out,  'Yes  what.?'    Humph! 

"When  the  patch  was  on  we  had  to  get  the  boiler 
filled  and  the  fires  away  as  soon  as  we  could.  I 
tried  to  get  some  information  out  of  the  old  Third, 
but  he  just  chewed  and  spat.  When  I  asked  the 
Second  he  says,  'Oh  Hell,  I  can't  stop  to  show  ye 
now.  Take  a  hand-lamp  and  go  and  see  the  run  o' 
the  pipes  yerself.'  I  was  nearly  dropping  for  sheer 
sleepiness,  but  I  made  up  my  mind  I  would  not 
give  in.  At  breakfast  time  the  Chief  said  we'd 
missed  a  tide  and  couldn't  get  away  till  midnight, 
and  I  thanked  God.  But  it's  a  funny  thing  about  a 
steamer,  that  the  more  time  you  have  the  more 
work  there  is  to  do.  We  had  stores  to  get  stowed 
away,  and  as  soon  as  that  was  done  a  steam-pipe  split 


134  ALIENS 

on  the  fore-deck  and  we  had  to  go  in  the  rain  and 
patch  it.  I  didn't  know  where  things  were;  I  didn't 
know  the  names  of  things;  I  didn't  know  how  they 
should  be  done.  I'd  been  a  gentleman  for  six  years, 
never  soiling  my  hands  except  to  clean  my  bicycle. 
When  the  Second  said  to  me  at  tea-time,  'You'd 
better  knock  off  and  turn  in.  You'll  be  on  watch 
to-night,'  I  began  to  realize  what  I  was  in  for.  I 
sat  on  the  settee  in  our  room  and  tried  to  think. 
No  wonder  my  old  shell-back  uncle  had  laughed. 
My  clothes  were  lying  all  round.  I  had  no  bed- 
ding, nor  sea-gear,  and  I  didn't  know  where  to 
get  it.  Suddenly  the  door  opened  and  the  Chief 
came  in. 

"'Haven't  you  a  letter  for  me?'  he  says.  I  gave 
it  to  him.  'Captain  Carville's  nephew,  I  see.  Com- 
ing for  a  trip,  or  are  you  going  to  stick  to  it?'  I 
looked  at  him. 

"'I'm  going  to  stick  to  it  if  it  kills  me,'  I  said. 
'I'm  here  for  keeps.'    He  nodded.    He  liked  that. 

"'Got  any  gear?'  he  says.  I  said,  'I've  got  noth- 
ing except  an  extra  suit  and  some  pyjamas.' 

"He  told  me  to  get  washed  and  go  ashore  and  buy 
some  bedding.  'I  don't  know  how  you'll  get  on 
with  that  old  Third,'  he  says.  'The  last  Fourth  left 
because  of  him.' 

"'I'm  not  going  to  leave,  sir,'  I  said.  I  wasn't 
going  back  for  anybody.  I  was  going  to  find  out 
something  about  life,  right  away  from  everybody 
I'd  ever  known. 

"'Bully  for  you,'  says  he,  and  with  that  he  went 
away.     I   went   ashore   and   bought   myself   some 


ALIENS  135 

gear,  and  by  the  time  I  got  back  it  was  eight  o'clock 
by  my  watch. 

"Never  shall  I  forget  that  night.  I'd  meant  to 
write  my  mother  and  uncle  and  tell  them  I  was 
all  right,  but  I  was  too  tired  and  worried.  The  old 
Third  came  aboard  at  ten  o'clock  with  a  skinful, 
and  the  Second  was  rushing  round  cursing  me  be- 
cause there  was  nobody  else  to  curse.  The  firemen 
were  drunk  and  the  donkey-man  was  drunk.  And 
at  eleven-fifteen  the  gong  sounded  for  slow-astern. 
I  stood  by  the  telegraph  and  worked  the  handle, 
and  do  what  I  would  I  kept  shutting  my  eyes.  My 
God!  I  thought,  shall  I  ever  sleep  again.''  The 
old  Third  stood  near  me,  his  eyes  all  bloodshot, 
the  crease  in  his  cheek  working,  his  dyed  mous- 
tache all  draggled,  his  breath — Humph!  He  was 
cunning  enough  to  pretend  he  was  all  right,  help- 
ing the  Second  with  the  reversing  gear.  Now  and 
again  the  Chief  would  come  down  and  give  an  order, 
his  glass  eye  fixing  me  in  a  queer  way.  I  never 
got  used  to  that  glass  eye.  It  wasn't  part  of  him, 
so  to  speak,  and  it  distracted  one's  attention.  The 
Chief  himself  would  be  talking  quite  friendly  to 
you,  when  you  would  suddenly  catch  sight  of  that 
glass  eye  glaring  at  you,  full  of  undying  and  un- 
reasonable hate.  He  would  be  roaring  with  laughter 
at  some  joke,  while  all  the  time  the  glass  eye  seemed 
to  be  calculating  a  cold-blooded  murder.  It  was 
strange  enough  in  its  socket;  but  I  tell  you,  when 
I  ran  up  to  call  him  for  a  hot  bearing  one  night 
and  he  looked  across  at  me  with  one  bright  blue 
eye  and  the  other  bloody-red  and  sunken,  and  I 


136  ALIENS 

saw  the  glass  thing  staring  at  me  from  the  dressing 
table — Humph ! 

"At  last,  about  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  we 
were  outside,  and  he  sent  me  up  to  see  if  the  pilot 
had  gone.  Just  as  I  stumbled  up  on  the  bridge- 
deck  I  saw  the  pilot  going  over  the  side,  down  a 
rope  ladder.  Oh,  didn't  I  wish  I  was  going  with 
him!    She  was  beginning  to  roll,  you  see. 

"And  yet,  though  I  was  in  the  depths,  so  to 
speak,  up  to  the  eyes  in  it,  as  I  stood  there  in  the 
rain  and  wind,  the  sweat  bitter  cold  on  my  body, 
I  saw  the  coast-wise  lights,  and  realized  with  a 
sudden  jump  of  the  heart  what  I  was  doing.  I  was 
out  at  sea.  And  I'd  been  born  at  sea.  Twenty-six 
years  in  cotton-wool!  Can  you  reahze  what  I  had 
done.''  Somewhere  inside  of  me  there  was  some- 
thing answering  the  call.  I  was  going  back  through 
toil  and  sorrow  to  my  own.  I  was  away  at  last.  I 
went  down  again  into  the  engine-room  and  told 
them  that  the  pilot  was  gone.  The  Second  says, 
'Get  yourself  turned  in,  then.' 

"I  could  have  put  my  head  on  his  shoulder  and 
cried  for  joy! 

"Well,  I've  said  enough  to  give  you  an  idea  of 
the  sudden  turn  in  my  fortunes.  A  week  ago  I 
was  in  love,  and  comfortably  tucked  awaj'^  inside 
a  cozy  corner  of  the  professional  class.  My  brother 
was  a  mysterious  prodigal.  Suddenly  he  butts  in, 
and  all  is  changed.  He's  snug  and  safe  in  a  good 
berth,  he's  taken  up  the  tale  of  his  girls  just  where 
he  left  off,  and  I'm  out  at  sea,  Fourth  Engineer  of 
a  rusty  old  freighter  bound  for  a  place  I'd  never 


ALIENS  137 

heard  of :  Port  Liuluth,  away  up  a  West  African  river. 
Well,  let  him  marry  her  and  be  hanged!  I  thought; 
I'm  out  of  that  world.  I  was  resolved  not  to  go  near 
London  town  tiH  I'd  worked  out  my  probation  on 
the  Corydon.  I  saw  that  I  was  back  in  the  Third 
Form  at  school  again.  I  saw  that  my  ship-mates 
knew  nothing  about  culture  or  public  schools  or  art 
or  gentility.  I  saw  they  knew  their  business,  and  if 
I  would  be  willing  and  quick  to  jump,  they  would 
teach  it  to  me.  My  only  real  trouble  was  that  old 
Third.  If  he'd  only  been  a  Httle  cleaner  in  his 
habits!  He  would  lie  on  the  settee  when  he  was 
off  watch,  the  creases  in  his  cheeks  twisting,  his 
blood-shot  old  eyes  fixed  on  the  toes  of  his  red  slippers 
and  then — biff! — he  would  spit  on  the  floor.  But 
even  that  I  could  have  stood  if  he'd  been  more 
cheerful.  He  never  smiled,  only  creased  his  cheeks 
a  little  deeper.  In  time  I  learned  why  the  last 
Fourth,  a  gay  young  spark  of  twenty-two,  had  fled 
out  of  the  ship.  This  old  Third,  old  Croasan  his 
name  was,  didn't  care  what  happened  to  him.  His 
children  were  grown  up  and  run  away;  he  was  too 
ignorant  to  get  a  certificate,  and  he  was  just  wait- 
ing for  a  ship  to  go  to  the  bottom  and  take  him  with 
her.  When  the  Second  told  me  that  I  didn't  believe 
him.  I  held,  as  most  people  hold,  that  even  a  man 
a  hundred  years  of  age  will  fight  like  a  tom-cat  for 
his  life.    But  I  found  that  the  Second  was  right! 

"We  struck  bad  weather  as  soon  as  we  got  into 
the  Bay.  The  Corydon  was  loaded  to  her  summer 
draught  and  here  was  a  westerly  gale  coming  on  her 
bow,  and  lata    on  her  beam.     She  rolled  day  and 


138  ALIENS 

night,  shipping  big  seas  all  the  time.  This  rolling 
washed  the  bilge  water  up  on  the  plates  in  the 
stoke  hold  and  lifted  them,  so  that  the  small  Welsh 
coal,  like  the  Lehigh  stuff  you  get  here,  was  washed 
into  the  hmber  and  choked  the  pump  suctions. 
Very  soon  the  bilge  began  to  fill.  The  old  ship  was 
leaking  like  a  basket  any  way,  and  she  took  a  heavy 
h'st  to  port.  All  my  watch  that  night,  from  eight 
o'clock  till  twelve,  I  was  on  those  bilge-pumps 
trying  to  make  them  draw,  while  the  Chief  looked 
after  the  engines.  It  was  no  joke,  with  her  listed 
over  like  that,  the  platform  under  water  and  green 
seas  coming  down  through  the  skylights.  I  thought 
of  my  pleasant  home  at  Oakleigh  Park  then,  the 
quiet  autumn  streets,  the  bright  fire  in  the  dining- 
room  and  the  cosy  warm  bed.  Oh  yes,  I  thought 
of  it,  but  not  with  regret.  I  was  out  to  win  through, 
and  all  hell  wouldn't  have  made  me  desert ! 

"At  twelve  o'clock  it  was  pretty  serious.  The 
Chief  had  the  Second  out  to  help  with  the  pumps 
and  sent  me  to  call  the  old  Third.  It  was  his  watch 
on  the  main  engines,  you  see,  twelve  to  four.  Our 
berth  was  flooded.  There  was  a  couple  of  inches  of 
water  on  the  floor,  and  at  every  sea  the  water  flew 
through  the  leaky  joints  of  the  dead-lights,  all  over 
old  Croasan.  To  and  fro  on  the  floor  my  slippers 
were  floating  and  a  torn  magazine  swam  into  the 
room  from  the  alley-way  as  I  opened  the  door.  The 
oil  from  the  lamp  was  dripping  on  to  the  drawer  tops, 
and  every  time  she  gave  a  deeper  roll  the  light  flared. 
I  put  the  magazine  under  it  to  catch  the  drip,  and 
as  I  did  so  I  caught  sight  of  a  picture  in  it,  a  picture 


ALIENS  139 

of  two  men  standing  on  the  deck  of  a  ship  in  a 
storm.  Underneath  were  the  words,  'I  think  she's 
sinking.*  Curious,  wasn't  it.^^  That's  just  what  I 
thought.  I  turned  to  old  Croasan,  He  lay  in  his 
bunk  just  as  he  had  come  off  watch  at  six  o'clock, 
his  dungarees  shining  with  grease,  his  tattooed  arms 
grey  with  dirt.  He  looked  eighty  years  old  as  he 
lay  there  with  his  bald  head  against  the  bottle  rack, 
the  pouches  under  his  eyes  marking  dark  shadows 
on  his  creased  cheeks.  I  shook  him,  and  he  opened 
his  eyes  for  a  second.  I  hardly  knew  what  I  was 
doing,  I  was  so  crazy  with  sickness  and  bruises 
and  incessant  toil.  *Mr.  Croasan,'  I  shouted  at 
him.  'Eh!'  says  he,  without  opening  his  eyes. 
*0h,'  I  said,  *I — I  think  she's  sinking.'  He  opened 
his  eyes  for  about  two  seconds  and  then  said  to  me 
in  a  terrible  voice  just  as  a  big  sea  crashed  over  our 
heads  and  the  ports  spurted,  'Let  her  sink  and  be 
damned!'  he  says  and  never  stirred.  I  left  him 
there.  I  ran  back  to  the  engine  room.  I  felt  I 
couldn't  stay  and  argue  the  point  with  a  man  who 
would  not  make  a  fight  for  us,  for  himself. 

"The  Chief  decided  to  cut  holes  in  the  suction 
pipe  just  under  the  water-line.  Then  when  the 
pumps  sucked  them  clear,  we  bound  them  up  with 
jointing  and  cut  more  holes  lower  down.  Oh!  it 
was  grand!  For  fourteen  hours  we  went  on  doing 
that,  up  to  our  shoulders  in  the  bilge,  the  grease 
caking  on  us  in  a  fresh  layer  every  time  we  climbed 
out  to  get  something  in  the  store.  The  weather  eased 
a  little  off  Finisterre  and  we  got  her  righted.  We 
went  up  to  the  Chief's  room  to  have  a  nip  of  whisky. 


140  ALIENS 

"'Ye  see,'  said  the  Second.  'Ye  see,  mister, 
there's  some  as  dinna  care.' 

"Old  Croasan  came  out  of  the  bunk  when  the 
trouble  was  over.  I  felt  too  proud  of  what  I'd  been 
through  to  be  hard  on  the  poor  old  chap,  proud  of 
being  in  the  thick  of  it.  I  was  seeing  life  at  last. 
This  was  what  I'd  come  for.  'Ah,'  says  the  Chief, 
his  glass  eye  fixing  me  over  his  whisky  glass,  'you'll 
be  marked  if  you  stay  on  the  Cory  don.'' 

"I  was.  It  took  that  old  box  of  misfortune 
thirty-two  days  to  make  Port  Duluth.  Every  day 
we  had  some  breakdown  or  other.  She  was  like  a 
good  many  other  ships  that  fly  the  Red  Ensign, 
worn  out.  But  did  I  grumble.'*  Not  a  bit  of  it. 
I  looked  at  it  as  any  man  will  who's  got  sand  in 
him.  It  was  a  fight.  There  was  no  fighting  in 
Victoria  Street;  it  was  simply  riding  through  life 
on  rubber  tyres.  Books,  art,  comfort,  philosophy, 
all  these  things  are  well  enough;  but  the  Corydon, 
the  rusty,  leaking,  treacherous  old  Corydon,  with 
her  starting  rivets  and  banging  old  engines,  she 
was  the  real  thing,  the  thing  to  mark  a  man  and 
teach  him  what  he's  made  of. 

"I  don't  suppose  any  of  you  people  have  ever 
heard  of  Port  Duluth.  I  certainly  hadn't.  When 
I  asked  where  it  was,  the  others  told  me  it  was  'up 
a  creek.'  In  England  this  would  have  meant  very 
little;  but  I  had  learned  from  my  mother  to  call 
even  the  Thames  a  creek,  and  so  I  was  able  to 
swallow  the  apparent  paradox  of  a  seven-thousand- 
ton  ship  insinuating  herself  up  to  what  was  known 
locally  as  'a  railhead.'    When  I  persisted  and  wanted 


ALIENS  141 

to  know  the  name  of  the  creek,  nobody  knew,  but 
they  said  it  was  one  of  the  channels  of  the  Niger 
River.  Then,  I  argued  in  my  bookish  way.  Port 
Duluth  must  be  in  Nigeria.  But  this  wasn't  so 
certain  at  all.  I  became  acquainted  with  the  ragged 
edge  of  the  British  Empire.  I  gathered  that  the 
boundaries  were  not  entirely  settled,  but  that  when 
the  railway  was  carried  along  some  watershed  into 
the  interior,  it  would  link  up  with  another  system 
and  our  sphere  of  influence  would  automatically  ex- 
tend to  include  Port  Duluth.  And  when  I  kept  on 
at  my  shipmates  and  wanted  to  know  what  made 
the  sphere  of  influence  so  very  precious  I  received 
the  staggering  answer  that  it  was  nuts.  We  were 
building  battle-ships  and  recruiting  armies  and 
building  railways  and  bridges  and  harbours,  for  nuts. 
To  me,  walking  to  and  fro  on  the  after-deck  in  the 
glow  of  a  tropical  sunset,  it  seemed  absurd.  You 
see,  I  knew  nothing  of  raw  products.  Until  I  went 
to  sea  I  didn't  know  how  far  the  common  things 
come.  I  didn't  know  that  Yorkshire  pig-iron  was 
smelted  from  Tunisian  and  Ionian  ore,  or  that  the 
sugar  in  my  tea  had  gone  from  Java  to  New  York 
and  from  there  to  Liverpool.  I  didn't  know  where 
things  came  from  nor  where  they  went.  The  geog- 
raphy at  school  had  some  of  it  no  doubt.  I  can 
recall  some  few  vague  facts  about  flax  at  Belfast 
and  jute  at  Dundee,  Humph!  That  trip  to  Port 
Duluth  was  worth  a  million  geograpjliy  lessons. 

"To  begin  with,  I  learned  much  about  rivers.  In 
England  a  river  is  something  easily  comprehended. 
You  can  see  along  it,  and  across  it,  and  it  is  locked, 


142  ALIENS 

bolted  and  barred  with  towns  and  bridges  and  weirs 
and  tow-paths.  It  is  no  more  like  an  African  river 
than  a  tame  cat  is  like  a  leopard.  Yet  on  the  map 
the  only  difference  is  that  perhaps  the  large  river 
will  have  two  mouths,  and  several  tributaries  run- 
ning into  it,  exactly  like  a  branch  running  into  a 
tree.  It  wasn't  like  that  at  all.  I  had  an  atlas  with 
me  and  when  we  reached  the  mouths  of  the  great 
river  I  tried  to  find  out  where  we  were  on  the  map. 
But  it  was  hopeless.  ^\Tiere  the  map  showed  one 
channel  there  were  hundreds  on  the  chart.  And  the 
chart  was  out-of-date.  It  seemed  a  dream  to  me.  I 
was  under  the  impression  that  navigation  nowadays 
was  a  humdrum  affair  of  making  points,  steering  on 
a  ruled  pencil  line  on  the  chart,  so  much  for  currents, 
so  much  for  tides  and  so  on.  So  it  is,  no  doubt,  in  a 
great  measure;  but  we  can  hardly  realize  how  much 
of  it  is  sheer  skill  and  gallant  daring.  Even  the 
men  who  do  it  don't  reahze  it  because  they  are 
always  doing  it.  That  first  voyage  to  Port  Duluth 
was  a  revelation  to  me  in  several  ways.  I  had  my 
own  private  troubles  you  may  be  sure.  I  was  as 
green  as  grass.  My  hands  blistered  and  my  heart 
sickened  many  a  time.  But  I  am  glad  to  think  I 
could  see  other  things  as  well.  To  me  it  was  thrilling 
to  look  out  across  the  oily  blue  glitter  and  see  a  hazy 
line  which  was  the  Ivory  Coast.  There  was  the 
Slave  Coast  and  the  Gold  Coast — the  words  had  a 
new  significance  now!  And  when  I  came  up  out  of 
that  awful  engine-room  and  saw  the  land  close  in, 
the  eternal  grey-green  line  of  mangrove  swamp  hold- 
ing up  the  blazing  vault  of  the  sky,  I  forgot  my 


ALIENS  143 

troubles.    I  said  to  myself  in  a  whisper,  'This  is  what 
I  came  for.    This  is  the  world ! ' 

"I  asked  where  we  had  anchored,  seeing  no  sign 
of  life  ashore,  and  they  told  me  it  was  the  Bar.  We 
must  wait  for  high  water.  Away  ahead  was  the 
bar  buoy,  a  white  blob  on  the  water.  I  stood  lean- 
ing against  a  stanchion  trying  to  sense  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  place  until  the  Second  called  me,  for 
there  was  something  to  do.  There  was  always 
something  to  do  in  that  tewible  old  ship.  I  went 
down,  and  together  we  wrestled  with  the  dynamo- 
engine,  a  cheap  contraption  with  a  closed  crank 
chamber  full  of  muddy  oil  which  was  supposed  to 
splash  into  all  the  bearings,  and  didn't.  We  needed 
a  washer,  a  special  sort  of  thing.  The  old  one  was 
worn  out.  We  needed  screws,  too,  to  fasten  it 
with,  small  brass  screws  with  flat  heads  that  sank 
in  out  of  sight.  When  I  asked  where  these  were 
coming  from  if  we  hadn't  got  them  on  the  ship,  the 
Second  said  with  some  asperity,  that  it  would  be 
my  job  to  make  them  on  my  anchor  watch  that 
night.  I  was  surprised  at  this  and  made  some  re- 
mark about  getting  them  from  ashore,  and  it  so 
tickled  the  poor  over-worked  Second  that  he  stood 
up  suddenly,  spun  round  towards  the  reversing 
engine  and  broke  into  peals  of  hysterical  laughter. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  sight  of  him  as  he  stood  there 
in  his  sodden,  filthy  singlet  and  dungarees,  his  arms 
knotted  and  burned  and  bruised,  his  common  little 
face  twisted  into  an  expression  of  super-human 
scorn.  For  a  single  moment  he  was  sublime,  lifted 
out  of  himself,  with  the  mere  effort  of  pouring  con- 


144  ALIENS 

tempt  upon  my  ignorance.  He  tried  to  put  it  into 
words,  and  sputtered.  He  looked  as  though  in  a 
trance  and  some  stormy  spirit  was  struggHng  within 
him.  The  sweat  ran  off  us  in  streams  as  we  stood 
there  in  the  hght  of  a  couple  of  slush-lamps  flaring 
in  the  draught  from  the  stoke-hold  door.  Then  he 
abruptly  abandoned  his  search  for  vitriolic  language 
and  rushed  into  the  store  for  a  piece  of  brass  rod. 
It  was  a  curious  performance.  I  was  impressed.  I 
understood  in  a  dim  way  that  there  was  no  longer  a 
hardware  shop  round  the  corner.  The  making  of 
those  screws  was  nothing  in  itself,  but  it  was  the 
principle  behind  it,  the  principle  of  never  being 
stumped.  And  these  rough,  uncultured,  north- 
countrymen  were  my  teachers.  The  Chief  fixed  me 
with  his  one  good  eye  at  lunch.  'We  don't  get  things 
from  ashore  in  this  employ,'  he  observed,  and  left 
me  to  soak  it  in. 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  been  down-hearted  at 
being  so  ignorant  and  dirty  and  tired,  but  I  wasn't 
in  the  least.  It  was  too  interesting.  There  was  a 
grim  irony,  to  me,  in  the  appalling  contrast  between 
the  behaviour  of  that  wornout  dynamo  and  the  smug 
theory  in  the  text-books  and  trade  catalogues  I  had 
been  used  to  so  long.  I  had  read  of  the  way  to  de- 
tect faults  in  a  circuit,  but  it  seemed  to  me  there  was 
no  need  to  look  for  faults  on  the  Corydon;  it  was  the 
virtues,  the  sound  places,  that  needed  looldng  for. 
And  yet,  strange  to  say,  out  of  her  decrepitude 
loyalty  was  born.  I  found  it  growing  on  me  day  by 
day,  a  jealous  regard  for  her,  the  pity  that  becomes 
a  sort  of  cantankerous  affection. 


ALIENS  145 

"But  to  go  on  with  that  day,  we  crossed  the  bar. 
It  was  high  water  at  four  in  the  afternoon  and  I 
had  to  go  down  again  to  stand  by  the  telegraph. 
With  my  head  against  the  reversing  engine  wheel  I 
could  feel  the  slow  vibration  of  the  anchor  coming 
up,  and  hear  the  sough  of  the  exhaust  coming  back 
from  the  windlass.  The  Second  and  old  Croasan 
stood  near  by,  their  faces  blank  with  waiting  and 
fatigue,  like  the  faces  of  dead  men.  Old  Croasan's 
eyelid  would  flicker  now  and  then  and  the  tip  of  his 
tongue  would  move  stealthily  round  the  inside  of 
his  lips.  He  hadn't  shaved  for  several  days  and 
his  face  was  vague  and  venerable  with  glistening  grey 
bristles.  When  he  leaned  gently  against  the  vice- 
bench  and  folding  his  arms,  closed  his  eyes,  he 
looked  like  a  hundred-years '-old  corpse.  He  closed 
his  eyes.  It  was  not  interesting  to  him,  this  crossing 
of  the  bar. 

"Suddenly  we  got  an  order,  and  we  started.  I 
went  along  the  tunnel  to  see  the  bearings  were  all 
oiled,  and  while  I  stood  in  the  dark  gloom  at  the 
far  end,  with  my  hand  on  the  dribbling  stern-gland, 
there  came  a  sudden  thump  and  a  grinding  shock. 
The  turning  shaft  shook  and  chattered  before  my 
eyes,  the  propeller  outside  caught  in  something, 
shuddered,  broke  clear  and  beat  like  a  flail.  Then 
the  ship  lifted  bodily  and  fell,  bump,  bump,  bump. 
I  stood  there  transfixed.  What  could  it  be?  I 
looked  along  the  dark  tunnel  to  where  the  lights 
of  the  engine-room  showed  in  a  pale  glint  and  I 
could  have  sworn  I  saw  the  whole  bag  of  tricks  move 
slowly  up  and  subside  as  the  keel  floundered  across 


146  ALIENS 

that  ridge  of  mud  and  soft  rock.  She  must  be 
breaking  in  half,  I  thought.  I  had  heard  of  such 
things.  I  gathered  myself  up  and  hurried  back  to 
the  engine-room,  where  I  found  everybody  per- 
fectly calm.  The  ship,  it  appeared,  was  now  on 
the  bar  and  it  was  our  business  to  keep  the  engines 
going  at  full  speed  until  she  was  gradually  urged 
over.  At  intervals  she  bumped.  Some  mass  of 
rock  or  clay  on  which  she  rested  would  collapse 
and  immediately  the  propeller  would  shove  her  a 
little  further  over.  Our  vacuum  almost  disap- 
peared, for  the  injection  pipe  got  blocked  with  mud. 
This  meant  more  work  for  me  in  starting  the  bal- 
last pump,  and  when  that  got  choked  too,  I  had  to 
open  it  up  and  clean  the  valve-boxes.  It  didn't  seem 
to  matter  what  happened,  there  was  a  new  job  for 
me.  I  wondered  with  a  sort  of  temporary  bitterness 
whether  they  would  miss  me  if  I  dropped  suddenly 
dead.  And  I  was  obliged  to  admit  to  myself  that  in 
all  probability  they  wouldn't.  They  would  just  go 
ahead  and  do  the  job  themselves  and  bury  me  when 
they  got  through. 

"And  this,  mind  you,  was  no  breakdown,  no 
emergency,  but  just  the  ordinary  day's  work.  If 
the  owners  didn't  want  to  risk  breaking  the  ship's 
back  on  the  bar  there  were  plenty  of  others  who 
would.  It  was  like  putting  a  horse  at  a  dyke,  getting 
his  fore-feet  across,  and  then  lashing  him  furiously 
until  he  had  kicked  a  lot  of  earth  away  and  finally 
got  himself  over.  Wf  en  I  had  put  the  doors  on  the 
ballast  pump  again  I  noticed  the  main  engines  were 
running  normal  once  more.     We  were  over.     We 


ALIENS  147 

had  crossed  the  bar.  My  mind  was  running  on  the 
romantic  nature  of  this  performance  when  I  went 
up  to  get  my  tea.  I  recalled  Tennyson's  poem  and 
wondered  what  he  would  have  thought  of  the  old 
Corydon  and  her  undignified  scramble  across  the  bar. 
The  others  caught  something  of  this  in  my  face,  I 
suppose,  for  the  Second  said  to  the  Chief,  'I  suppose 
the  Fourth  '11  be  for  the  beach  to-night,  eh.'^'  and 
they  laughed.  *  Don't  you  go  ashore  here  then.'*'  I 
asked,  and  they  laughed  again.  *No,  there's  noth- 
ing to  go  ashore  for,'  said  the  Chief,  and  he  fixed  me 
with  his  eye.  'Why,'  he  added,  'don't  you  know 
where  you  are?  You're  in  the  middle  of  all  the 
atrocities  here.'  The  others  nodded  'That's  right. 
Any  amount  of  atrocities — round  here.'  It  seemed 
a  silly  way  of  putting  it.  Here  we'd  come  thousands 
of  miles  just  to  get  into  the  middle  of  atrocities! 
For  a  moment  the  word  conveyed  nothing  to  me. 
I  had  been  getting  into  the  way  of  thinking  the 
Corydon  was  by  way  of  being  something  of  an 
atrocity,  but  I  knew  that  was  not  what  my  ship- 
mates meant.  I'm  not  sure  even  now  that  there  ever 
had  been  any  atrocities  in  that  part  of  the  world. 
I  read  about  them  in  a  book  once;  but  the  things 
that  get  into  books  have  always  eluded  me.  Al- 
ready I  had  laid  hold  of  that  cardinal  fact  in  my 
new  life.  The  old  ideas,  the  old  conventional 
phrases  and  assumptions,  were  cumbersome,  inade- 
quate or  untrue.  Take  that  word  'atrocity.*  Well 
enough  in  a  radical  leading  article;  but  what  core  of 
real  truth  was  there  in  it  when  it  was  used  by  a 
living  man  at  a  railhead  up  the  Niger  River?    To 


148  ALIENS 

anyone  with  imagination  it  was  comic.  But  my 
shipmates  were  not  given  to  much  imagination.  In 
the  business  of  their  lives  they  were  ahve  and 
original  and  racy.  They  used  phrases  and  turns  of 
speech  that  sometimes  thrilled  me  with  their  vivid 
power.  But  outside  of  that  narrow  channel  they 
had  nothing  but  newspaper  phrases,  like  'atrocities,' 
mere  catchwords  that  chill  one's  soul  with  their 
bald,  withered  and  bloodless  pretensions.  The 
Chief  gave  me  an  example  of  this  after  tea  that 
night.  For  a  brief  spell,  by  some  unforeseen  miracle 
of  good  fortune,  there  was  nothing  to  do  for  the 
moment,  and  the  four  of  us,  in  clean  singlets  and 
dungarees,  were  leaning  on  the  off  rail  of  the  after 
well-deck  smoking.  Port  Duluth  was  behind  us.  In 
front  lay  a  broad,  placid  sheet  of  copper-tinted, 
forest-rimmed  water,  the  confluence  of  a  number  of 
stagnant  creeks  and  back-streams,  a  sort  of  knot  in 
the  interminable  loops  and  windings  of  the  delta. 
Here  and  there  in  the  line  of  tree-tops  was  a  gap 
showing  where  some  waterway  came  through.  Here 
and  there,  too,  I  could  descry  a  tiny  beach  of  mud 
a  yard  or  two  wide,  with  a  hut  and  a  canoe  tied  to 
the  mangrove  roots,  and  black,  naked  people 
crouched  on  their  hams  in  the  shadows  cast  by  the 
forest,  engaged  in  their — to  me — mysterious  busi- 
ness of  living.  They  were  far-away  and  more  or 
less  picturesque.  So,  too,  were  the  fishermen  a  mile 
away  on  the  shining  water  silhouetted  in  solid  black 
against  the  western  glow.  At  the  time  I  was  so  full 
of  new  impressions  that  I  regarded  the  scene  very 
much  as  one  turns  over  the  pages  of  a  'book  of 


ALIENS  149 

views'  in  a  friend's  drawing  room.  I  couldn't  take 
it  in.  That  needs  time,  and  also  one  must  have  the 
Key.  I  was  musing  upon  the  apparent  meaningless- 
ness  of  a  life  that  had  thrown  me  up  for  a  moment 
at  a  place  I'd  never  heard  of  before,  thrown  me  up 
there  to  assist  in  the  astonishing  job  of  transporting 
nuts,  when  the  Chief  remarked,  pointing  with  the 
stem  of  his  pipe,  'Here's  a  chief  coming.'  I  looked 
round,  expecting  to  see  another  stout,  middle-aged 
man  in  singlet  and  dungarees,  with  perhaps  an  old 
uniform  patrol  jacket  whose  brass  buttons  were 
green  with  verdigris.  But  it  was  not  so.  He  was 
indicating  a  large  canoe  emerging  rapidly  from  the 
waterway  astern  of  us.  As  it  came  more  into  our 
angle  of  vision  I  watched  with  extraordinary  ex- 
pectancy. I  was  dazed,  not  only  by  the  spectacle, 
but  by  the  aplomb  <  with  which  my  shipmates  took 
these  things.  Here  was  a  savage  chief  sitting  under 
an  immense  parasol  in  the  stern  of  his  state  canoe, 
propelled  by  a  score  of  naked,  black  paddlers  in 
white  loin-cloths  and  scarlet  cricket-caps,  coming  to 
call  on  us.  This  was  evidently  his  intention,  for  the 
accommodation  ladder  went  down  with  a  rattle,  and 
the  canoe  with  her  twenty  spear-shaped  paddles 
swung  alongside  like  a  naval  pinnace,  and  a  fat  old 
chap,  dressed  in  a  vast  white  flannel  nightgown  with 
a  sort  of  dress-shirt  front  pleated  on  it  in  blue  thread, 
came  slowly  up  the  ladder.  Came  up  and  walked 
past  with  a  heavy,  flat-footed  tread,  and  disap- 
peared into  the  saloon  with  the  Old  Man.  I  was  too 
astonished  to  speak  for  some  time.  That  old  fel- 
low's  face   behind   its   broad    benevolence   and   its 


150  ALIENS 

confusing  tattooings  and  mutilations,  had  an  expres- 
sion of  power.  It  was  an  expression  you  do  not 
find  in  London  suburbs.  You  do  not  find  it  in  the 
faces  of  men  who  sit  at  a  desk  and  hire  you  and  fire 
you.  The  momentary  ghmpse  I  had  of  that  chief's 
face  made  clear  to  me  many  passages  in  history, 
many  things  in  literature,  many  dark  and  tortuous 
riddles  in  the  adventures  of  my  own  little  tinpot  soul. 
And  in  the  light  of  this  discovery  I  heard  the  Chief, 
our  chief,  saying,  'Yes,  these  chaps  have  power  of  life 
and  death  over  their  people,  power  of  life  and  death.* 
"And  for  once  the  hackneyed,  battered,  old  con- 
ventional newspaper  gibberish  had  in  it  the  breath 
of  life.  I  believed  it.  At  that  moment,  on  the 
threshold  of  new  experiences,  I  took  the  words  on 
trust.  Perhaps,  for  once,  the  things  I  had  read  in 
books  had  not  eluded  me!  Perhaps  the  old  gentle- 
man in  the  flannel  nightgown  really  was  a  potential 
African  despot.  In  the  midst  of  my  reflections  I 
heard  another  newspaper  phrase,  'Not  long  ago  the 
rivers  ran  blood.'  This  was  the  Second,  who  was 
fond  of  stories  inside  comic  supplements,  and  who 
was  recalling  a  bygone  'atrocity,'  I  suppose.  But 
it  was  curious  to  me,  to  notice  how  abruptly  they  all 
dropped  the  journalist  jargon  the  moment  they 
spoke  of  something  they  really  understood.  They 
regaled  me  with  'atrocities,'  with  'rivers  running 
blood'  and  'gold  in  the  forests  that  no  white  man 
had  ever  penetrated,*  with  'power  of  life  and  death* 
and  so  on,  but  when  I  inquired  anxiously  what  this 
omnipotent  monarch  had  come  aboard  of  us  for,  they 
rephed  without  any  hesitation. 


ALIENS  151 

"*To  get  a  drink.* 

"It  seemed  a  contemptible  diversion  for  a  person 
inspiring  such  awe  politically.  I  don't  say,  mind 
you,  that  such  was  his  object.  My  shipmates  may 
have  been  as  much  in  error  about  his  motives  as 
they  were  about  his  power.  I  was  too  tired,  too 
full  of  aches  and  humiliations  of  my  own,  to  investi- 
gate. He  passed  across  my  field  of  vision,  and  being 
the  first  of  his  kind,  left  an  ineffaceable  impression. 
The  sun  went  down  suddenly  soon  after,  and  the  cop- 
pery glow  vanished  from  the  water,  leaving  it  a  grey 
blur. 

"*Ih  the  middle  of  all  the  atrocities'!  The  flashy, 
bombastic  phraseology  came  back  to  me  with  grim 
insistence  that  night  when  I  went  down  at  eight 
o'clock  to  look  after  the  boilers  and  pumps  and  to 
make,  with  entirely  inadequate  means,  those  brass 
screws  for  the  dynamo-engine.  The  engine-room 
was  in  darkness  save  for  the  hand-lamp  that  hung 
over  the  vice-bench.  The  fat  cotton- wick  smoked 
and  crackled,  the  light  draught  swirling  it  towards 
my  head  at  times,  singeing  my  hair  and  making  my 
eyes  water.  Behind  me  the  silent,  heated  engines 
stood  up,  stark  and  ominous  hke  some  emblem  of 
my  destiny  watching  me.  The  white  faces  of  the 
gauges  over  the  starting  handles  stared  blankly. 
From  the  stokehold  came  the  occasional  clink  of  a 
shovel  or  the  hollow  clang  of  a  fire-door  flung  to. 
And  I  worked.  I  fought  with  the  greasy  brass  and 
the  broken,  worn-out  tools.  I  made  wasters  and 
started  again.  The  sweat  poured  off  me,  and  I 
drank  thirstily  the  warm  water  in  the  can  that 


152  ALIENS 

hung  over  my  head  in  the  ventilator.  It  was  ten 
o'clock  when  I  realized  I  had  made  but  one  screw. 
The  fireman  on  duty  came  through,  and  remarking 
that  he  thought  the  wind  had  gone  round,  climbed 
the  ladder  to  change  the  ventilators.  I  heard  the 
groan  of  the  cowl  as  he  pulled  at  it  and  then  my 
lamp  flared  gustily  in  a  light  breeze  that  came  down. 
Light  as  it  was  it  was  a  blessed  rehef .  It  was  more. 
It  was  a  message.  There  was  a  strange  smell  about 
it  that  gave  a  new  turn  to  my  thoughts.  A  smell  of 
the  land,  of  the  dark  forests  and  fragrant  planta- 
tions. Another  stock  phrase  came  to  me — 'spicy 
breezes.'  Working  there  at  my  miserable  task,  I 
wondered  if  these  were  the  'spicy  breezes'  of  the 
hymn-books.  Of  a  sudden  I  threw  down  my  tools 
and  went  up  the  ladder  to  look  round.  All  day 
there  had  been  in  my  mind  a  sort  of  undertow  of 
resentment  at  the  tacit  decision  that  I  ought  not  to 
want  to  go  ashore.  I  did  want  to.  It  seemed  to  me 
an  outrage  to  come  so  far  and  remain  a  prisoner  in 
bondage  on  the  ship.  I  leaned  on  the  rail  by  the 
gangway  and  looked  along  the  wooden  wharf  to 
where  a  few  lights  twinkled  in  the  distance.  Higher 
up,  beyond  the  cutting  for  the  railway,  the  dark 
mass  of  a  big  shed  loomed  up  against  the  lights  of 
what  I  supposed  was  Port  Duluth,  And  from  where 
I  stood  I  could  hear  a  steady  rhythmic  throb,  the  un- 
mistakable sound  of  an  engine.  I  wondered  what 
it  could  be.  Was  it  one  of  those  weird  affairs  I 
remembered  in  our  catalogues,  colonial  engines  with 
grotesque  fireboxes  and  elaborate  funnels,  for  burn- 
ing wood  instead  of  coal.'^    I  looked  round.    Nobody 


ALIENS  153 

in  sight.  Everybody  was  below.  The  Chief  and 
Second  were  asleep,  old  Croasan  was  in  his  room 
with  a  bottle  of  gin,  drinking  steadily.  In  another 
moment  I  had  gone  down  the  gangway  and  was 
making  for  the  shed.  Just  then  I  felt  if  I  didn't 
speak  to  somebody  who  wasn't  under  the  spell  of 
the  Corydon,  I  would  go  crazy.  I  slipped  into  an 
excavation  and  skinned  my  knees.  I  fell  over  some 
stacked  rails  and  barked  my  shins.  I  heard  some- 
thing scuttling  in  the  darkness.  I  saw  the  night- 
watchman  on  the  Corydon  standing  at  the  galley 
door,  looking  out.  And  then,  looking  again  towards 
my  objective,  I  saw  an  open  door  in  the  shed  with  a 
short,  broad  figure  showing  up  sharply  against  a 
brightly  illuminated  interior.  I  scrambled  up  the 
little  incline  and  found  a  path. 

"I  was  suddenly  conscious  I  had  no  particular 
reason  for  calling  upon  this  unknown  person  in  the 
middle  of  the  night.  It  is  one  of  the  tragedies  of 
human  life  that  while  we  do  most  things  by  instinct 
or  intuition  we  have  to  clamp  some  'particular 
reason'  on  our  actions  before  we  can  secure  the 
approbation  either  of  others  or  of  ourselves.  Some 
men,  like  my  young  brother,  never  trouble  them- 
selves about  it.  But  all  my  life  I  have  found  myself 
hesitating  upon  the  edge  of  actions  that  might  be 
heroic  or  fantastic  or  original  or  simply  desirable, 
just  because  I  couldn't  square  them  with  a  particular 
reason.  It  was  so  in  this  instance.  I  came  into  the 
light  of  that  doorway,  and  hesitated.  But  the  short, 
broad  figure  was  not  like  me.  In  the  most  matter- 
of-fact  fashion  he  nodded  his  head  and  said  in  a 


154  ALIENS 

clear  voice  with  a  strong  foreign  accent,  'Good 
evening.  How  are  you?'  And  I  answered  at  once 
that  I  was  very  well.  He  gave  the  cue,  the  cue 
which  the  Corydon  had  temporarily  obliterated  from 
my  mind!  He  stood  to  one  side  and  let  me  see  into 
his  domain.  A  large  central-draft  oil  lamp  hung  in 
the  centre  of  the  roof  of  a  small  chamber.  There 
was  a  door  at  the  back,  leading,  I  surmised,  to  the 
boiler  room,  for  in  one  corner  stood  the  machine 
that  had  attracted  me  from  the  ship,  a  curious 
hunched  affair  with  a  violently  working  apparatus 
in  front  and  pipes  covered  with  snow  curving  up 
and  disappearing  into  the  top  of  it.  A  small  foot- 
lathe  stood  by  a  bench,  and  on  the  bench  itself  was 
clamped  a  fret-work  table  and  a  partly  completed 
fret-work  corner  bracket.  I  wiped  my  face  with  my 
sweat-rag  and  turned  to  get  a  good  look  at  the 
owner  of  this  variegated  display.  It  seemed  to  me 
I  was  having  experiences  after  all. 

"He  was  young  and  had  never  shaved  the  down 
which  grew  on  his  cheeks  and  the  points  of  his  chin. 
Young  as  he  was  he  had  the  lines  of  half  a  century 
scored  under  his  eyes  and  on  his  temples,  thin  lines 
on  clear,  yellow  skin.  The  whites  of  his  eyes  were 
yellow  too,  as  though  he  had  suffered  from  jaundice. 
Which  he  had,  as  I  learned  very  soon  after  he 
opened  upon  me  in  a  clear,  sonorous  voice  that 
rolled  the  r's  and  beat  like  a  flail  on  the  labials  and 
diphthongs.  He  wore  a  blue  dungaree  boiler-suit, 
which  is  a  combination  affair,  you  know,  and  on 
his  head  he  had  an  old,  greasy,  red  fez.  It  seemed 
to  me  a  preposterous  piece  of  fancy  dress  up  a  creek 


ALIENS  155 

on  the  Niger  River.  But  I  found  later,  to  my  aston- 
ishment, that  Moslems  were  common  enough  there; 
that  they  had  soaked  through  from  the  Mediter- 
ranean littoral  and  the  head-waters  of  the  Nile 
generations  ago.  Not  that  this  gentleman  had 
soaked  through,  or  was  a  Moslem  either.  He  had, 
as  he  informed  me,  been  all  over  the  world.  But  it 
was  not  his  fez,  or  his  jaundiced  complexion,  or  his 
fret-work,  or  his  languages,  or  his  travels  that 
marked  him  out  for  me  at  the  time.  It  was  the 
simple  fact  that  he  was  my  first  foreigner.  In  spite 
of  my  having  come  in  upon  him,  forced  myself  upon 
him  as  it  were,  he  gave  me  the  impression  of  being 
the  aggressor.  I  felt  myself  throwing  up  defences 
against  him.  It  is  popular  to  gibe  at  the  English- 
man's taciturnity  abroad.  There  is  a  reason.  The 
foreigner,  not  the  best  nor  the  aristocratic  foreigner 
perhaps,  but  the  common  run  of  him,  act  like 
amiable  invaders.  They  take  possession  of  us,  of 
our  language,  our  idioms,  our  games,  our  clothes, 
our  machinery,  ideas,  everything.  They  nod  and 
smile  and  say  knowingly  *How  are  you.  All  right, 
eh?'  and  assume  an  intimacy  you  don't  permit  with 
your  own  family.  This  young  chap  in  the  fez  had 
other  points,  but  at  the  outset  I  had  the  most  ex- 
traordinary sensation  of  leaning  against  the  door  of 
my  soul,  trying  to  keep  him  out.  I  don't  suppose  it 
struck  him  that  way.  I  dare  say  he  thought  me 
rather  subdued  and  untidy.  He  was  very  hospitable, 
asking  me  to  'take  a  seat'  at  his  bench,  and  showing 
me  his  fret-work.  He  told  me  he  never  wasted 
any  time,  as  that  was  the  way  to  succeed.     'If  at 


156  ALIENS 

first  you  don't  succeed,  try,  try  again, '  he  sang  with 
the  accents  all  on  the  wrong  syllables.  He  was  very 
proud  of  this  aphorism,  evidently  thinking  it  the 
secret  of  our  imperial  race.  And  he  told  me  his 
history.  He  was  born  in  Damascus,  he  said,  so  he 
knew  Arabic.  His  father  emigrated  to  Bolivia,  so 
he  spoke  Spanish.  Then  they  pulled  up  stakes  and 
went  to  New  Zealand,  where  he  learned  English. 
For  some  mysterious  reason  they  again  took  ship 
and  came  to  the  Cameroons,  where  he  learned 
German.  His  family  was  now  in  the  Brazils,  where 
no  doubt  they  were  learning  Portuguese;  but  he 
himself  had  found  a  very  good  job  here.  He  was 
saving  money  to  go  to  England.  He  seemed  to 
have  no  roots,  as  it  were.  I  wondered,  as  I  have 
often  wondered  of  other  polyglot  people  I  have 
met,  how  much  of  any  language  they  really  know, 
which  language  do  they  think  in.''  They  always 
seem  to  me  to  resemble  those  lumps  of  floating 
grass  one  sees  in  the  Gulf  Stream,  forever  drifting 
onward,  footless  and  fruitless  to  the  end.  They 
never  seem  to  do  anything  with  their  marvelous 
accumulation  of  languages  and  knowledge  of  the 
world.  Perhaps  I  wrong  them.  They  may  have 
spiritual  experiences  transcending  their  gifts  of 
speech.    I  don't  know. 

"At  that  time,  too,  I  was  not  seeking  spiritual 
communion.  The  moment  I  had  caught  sight  of 
that  little  lathe  I  wanted  to  ask  if  he  could  make 
screws.  I  wanted  screws,  brass  ones  with  flat  heads. 
As  soon  as  I  could  I  exi^lained  this  to  him.  Yes,  he 
rephed,   with  his  smile  of  supreme  mtelligence,  he 


ALIENS  157 

could  make  screws.  How  many?  And  the  washer, 
could  he  make  that?  Had  he  the  material?  I  had 
the  dimensions  of  that  washer  burned  into  my  brain 
and  I  made  a  little  sketch  of  it  on  the  bench.  But 
his  education  hadn't  run  to  scale  drawings,  so  I 
drew  it  in  perspective  and  repeated  the  figures  with 
many  gestures  indicating  roundness  and  thickness 
and  other  properties.  He  began  to  make  the  screws, 
copying  the  one  I  had  made  laboriously  by  hand. 
I  offered  to  assist  by  putting  my  foot  on  the  treadle, 
but  he  said  it  was  not  necessary.  '  Too  many  cooks 
spoil  the  broth,'  he  added,  and  I  felt  disconcerted. 
He  didn't  mean  anything  ojffensive,  you  know;  he 
was  only  proud  of  his  English.  So  I  sat  watching 
him,  or  walked  over  to  the  little  refrigerating  plant 
thundering  away  in  the  corner,  with  its  shining  oil 
cups  and  its  pipes  covered  with  snow  or  glazed  with 
ice.  And  while  I  stood  looking  at  it,  a  tall,  bony 
native,  a  dirty  loin-cloth  wrapped  about  his  middle, 
his  ribs  and  back  all  gashed  with  tribal  scars  and 
scaly  with  skin  trouble,  came  in  and  laid  his  corru- 
gated forehead  for  a  moment  against  the  snow  on 
the  pipes.  He  made  an  astonishing  picture,  with  his 
thin  arms  outstretched  in  support,  as  though  he 
were  supplicating  the  white  man's  god.  It  must 
have  been  a  confusing  phenomenon  to  his  simple 
mind,  that  fierce,  hot,  galloping  devil  that  made  ice. 
And  then  he  gathered  a  little  of  the  soft  snow  in  his 
fingers  and  rubbed  it  over  his  face  and  lips  and 
limped  out  again.  And  every  little  while  he  or 
another  bony  creature  very  like  him  would  come  in 
and  go  through  the  same  performance.    My  friend 


158  ALIENS 

at  the  lathe  never  looked  up,  not  caring  to  waste 
any  of  his  precious  time,  I  suppose,  but  he  observed, 
when  I  spoke  of  it,  that  the  'ignorant  animals  liked 
the  taste  of  snow.'  I  went  back  to  the  bench  again 
and  looked  at  his  fret-work.  Goodness  only  knows 
why  he  was  doing  it.  It  was  a  meaningless  design  of 
dots  and  wriggles.  When  I  asked  him  he  said  he 
was  doing  it  for  a  Christmas  present  for  his  mother 
in  Pernambuco.  He  added  that  she  was  a  Maltese 
and  he  had  learned  Italian  from  her.  I  was  so 
oppressed  by  this  amazing  knowledge  of  languages 
that  I  couldn't  say  a  word  in  any  language.  It 
seemed  silly  for  us  to  spend  years  scraping  together 
a  few  French  words  at  school  when  a  foreigner  like 
this  could  gather  a  dozen  tongues  in  less  time.  And 
yet,  when  you  go  about  the  world  you  will  find  such 
people  by  the  score,  and  you  will  find  them  working 
for  and  being  governed  by  EngHshmen  who  know 
no  language  but  their  own  and  not  always  a  great 
deal  of  that.  I  sat  there  running  my  fingers  over 
the  fret-work  bracket  that  was  designed  for  the 
Maltese  lady  in  Pernambuco  and  trying  to  focus  all 
these  novel  and  conflicting  ideas  when  I  suddenly 
recollected  I  was  on  watch.  What  if  something  went 
wrong?  I  was  new  to  watch-keeping  then  and  had 
no  subconscious  sense  of  responsibility  to  keep  me 
on  the  alert.  The  sudden  recollection  was  like  an 
electric  shock.  I  jumped  up,  and  saying  *I'll  be 
back  in  a  minute,'  ran  down  to  the  ship  and  so  into 
the  engine  room,  my  heart  in  my  mouth.  It  was 
half -past  eleven!  But  there  was  nothing  wrong.  I 
looked  at  the  gauge-glasses  on  the  boilers,  peered 


ALIENS  159 

into  the  bilges,  and  found  the  fireman  at  his  post  in 
the  stokehold.  And  then  I  took  the  old  washer  and 
went  back  to  my  friend  in  the  fez.  Mister  George, 
he  called  himself.  *My  name  is  English,'  he  boomed 
in  his  reverberating  voice.  *  George,  Mister  George.' 
I  never  knew  his  other  name,  if  he  had  one.  There 
you  had  the  invading  quality  I  have  spoken  of.  He 
seemed  to  think  he  was  raised  above  the  common 
herd  of  foreigners  by  having  an  English  name. 
Mister  George  had  made  my  screws,  with  one  extra 
in  case  of  need.  And  he  found  a  piece  of  brass  that 
had  in  it  a  possible  washer.  I  stood  like  one  in  a 
trance  watching  him  as  he  fixed  it  in  his  little  lathe 
and  adjusted  the  tool-rest  and  took  the  first  harsh 
chattering  cuts.  He  was  wonderfully  eflScient.  An 
English  mechanic  would  have  jeered  at  his  crazy 
machine  and  contemptible  bits  of  tools,  and  he  had 
an  amateurish,  ladylike  air  of  flinching  from  the 
chips.  But  he  did  it  much  more  quickly  than  I 
could  have  done  it,  I  felt  humbly.  I  only  wished  he 
would  not  smile  in  such  a  detestable  fashion  and 
suddenly  assault  me  with  'How  are  you  now?  All 
right,  eh?'  I  suppose  he  was  practising  his  English. 
And  as  the  finishing  touch  was  put  on  the  washer 
with  a  thin,  snaky  file,  he  asked  suddenly  if  I  had 
any  books. 

"'Books!'  I  repeated,  surprised;  'what  kind  of 
books?'  I  had  an  idea  he  could  take  no  interest  in 
anything  save  grammars  and  dictionaries.  Some- 
how, in  spite  of  all  his  acquirements,  one  didn't 
associate  that  transitory  creature  with  books  at  all. 
*Eh?'  he  said,  harshly,  'I  don't  understand.     You 


160  ALIENS 

understand,  I  wish  for  books.'  'Yes,  what  sort?'  I 
asked  again.  'It  doesn't  matter,'  he  muttered, 
calmly,  taking  the  finished  article  from  the  lathe 
and  putting  it  beside  the  screws,  'all  books  are  the 
same.  It  doesn't  matter  at  all.  You  have  books, 
eh?'  I  said  I  had  one  or  two,  but  I  needed  them. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  had  only  brought  one  or  two 
engineering  works  with  me  and  a  funny  old  leather- 
bound  Norie's  Navigation  of  my  father's.  My 
mother  didn't  know  whether  I'd  need  it  or  not.  I 
didn't.  I  had  plenty  to  do  without  going  into  navi- 
gation. It  was  a  queer  old  thing,  though,'  designed 
for  men  of  the  old  school  who  came  aft  from  the 
forecastle  and  had  to  learn  the  three  Rs.  'You 
need  them,  eh?  Ah,  well,  that  is  all  right.  I  read 
many  books,  yes.  Plenty  English  books.'  I  saw 
light  all  at  once.  'How  much  for  these?'  I  asked 
Mister  George.  He  turned  to  look  at  the  gauges  of 
the  freezing  plant  and  then  glanced  back  at  me  over 
his  shoulder.  'I  care  nothing  for  money,'  he  said. 
'It  is  the  root  of  evil.  But  books!  Knowledge  is 
power,  yes.' 

"It  was  confusing.  Here  was  another  victim  of 
words,  words  he  didn't  even  clearly  understand.  He 
lived  apparently  in  a  copy-book  world,  full  of  shining 
maxims  and  idiotic  generalities.  For  an  instant  I 
had  a  queer  feeling  of  talking  to  one  of  those  auto- 
matons one  sees  on  the  stage — figures  with  grama- 
phones  in  their  interiors,  and  who  utter  strange, 
disconcerting  sounds. 

"'I  will  give  you  a  book,'  I  said  at  last,  taking  up 
the  things,  'and  many  thanks  for  these.    They  said 


ALIENS  161 

we  couldn't  get  them  made  here,  but  you  see  they 
were  wrong.' 

"He  didn't  understand  a  word  of  this  explanation, 
I  believe.  He  smiled,  moved  his  fez  round  and  round 
his  head  as  if  on  a  socket,  and  remarked,  'Yes,  you 
all  right  now,  eh?' 

"'Yes,'  I  said,  patiently,  'but  if  you  want  a  book 
on  navigation,  mathematics  and  so  on,  I  can  let  you 
have  it.' 

"He  nodded,  but  I  don't  think  he  followed  me.  So 
I  took  my  screws  and  washer,  and  telling  him  I  would 
return,  hurried  back  to  the  ship.  You  know,  I  felt 
triumphant.  I  had  scored,  not  only  over  my  ship- 
mates, but  over  him,  over  Africa,  over  the  whole 
of  the  universe  that  wasn't  Me,  myself.  I  had 
taken  a  step  forward.  It  is  curious  how  difficult  it  is 
to  describe  the  simplest  evolutions  of  the  soul.  But 
I  was  no  longer  oppressed  by  Mister  George  and  his 
languages.  I  had  accomplished  something  far  be- 
yond the  most  abstruse  philologies — I  had  got  what 
I  wanted. 

"And  I  took  him  his  book,  a  big  obsolete  tome 
bound  in  hide.  He  was  rapturous,  wiping  his  hands 
on  some  waste  and  opening  it  upside  down.  'Ah, 
yes,  very  good,  very  good!'  he  said.  *I  read  plenty 
English  books,  yes.  Thank  you,  I  am  very  much 
obliged.  Knowledge  is  power,  eh.'''  I  smiled,  I  sup- 
pose, for  he  leaned  toward  me  eagerly.  'No.''  You 
think  not,  eh?  Ah,  when  I  had  the  jaundice,  I  read 
many  books.'  He  waved  his  arms  to  indicate  long 
galleries  of  libraries.  'Plenty,  plenty,  books.  Oh, 
yes.'    Once  again  I  had  the  feeling  of  listening  to  an 


162  ALIENS 

automaton.  It  seemed  so  futile  talking  to  such  a 
being.  Indeed,  that  is  why  I  tell  you  about  him. 
He  was  my  first  foreigner.  I  had  always  been  able 
to  get  into  some  sort  of  touch  with  the  people  I  had 
met.  I  knew  how  they  lived  and  loved  and  thought. 
But  him !  He  had  dressed  his  mind  up  in  the  showy 
rags  and  remnants  of  our  speech  as  a  savage  will 
dress  his  body  in  incongruous  clothing,  and  of  what 
he  was,  inside,  I  could  form  no  conjecture.  Between 
us  was  an  impassable  barrier.  I  was  trying  to  realize 
what  made  me  so  silent  before  his  volubility,  when 
the  bell  on  the  forecastle  of  the  Corydon  struck 
eight  times.  It  was  midnight  and  my  watch  was 
over.  I  said  good-bye.  *I  will  visit  your  ship,* 
said  my  friend.  Mister  George.  *I  have  been  on 
plenty  ships.    Oh,  yes,  plenty  ...  * 

"I  ran  away  at  last.  I  daresay  he  would  have 
practised  his  English  on  me  till  daybreak  if  I  hadn't 
run  away.  I  went  down  and  found  things  all  quiet, 
and  then  I  came  up  and  roused  old  Croasan.  He 
was  lying  on  the  settee  and  the  gin-bottle  stood  on 
the  chest-of-drawers,  empty.  He  raised  himself  on 
his  elbow  and  looked  at  me  gloomily.  I  was  so  glad 
to  get  back  and  talk  to  a  real  human  being,  drunk 
as  he  was,  that  I  patted  him  on  the  shoulder  and 
told  him  we  would  have  the  dynamo  fixed  up  in 
the  morning.  He  blinked,  and  fell  back  exhausted. 
I  hoisted  him  up  again  and  he  looked  round  resent- 
fully. *  Aren't  you  going  to  turn  out  .5^'  I  asked  him. 
*Come  on.  Mister.'  *Is  she  all  right?'  he  growled. 
*  Yes,  of  course!'  I  answered,  rashly,  and  he  promptly 
lay  down  again  and  declined  to  move.    I  was  in  a 


ALIENS  163 

hole,  but  not  downhearted.  I  couldn't  turn  in  un- 
less he  turned  out,  you  know.  I  walked  along  the 
alleyway  with  a  crazy  idea  of  calling  the  Chief  half 
formed  in  my  mind.  But  that  seemed  to  clash  with 
the  school-boy  code  that  forbids  sneaking.  Poor  old 
chap !  I  thought.  And  yet  I  couldn't  keep  his  watch. 
I  had  to  get  my  sleep  if  I  was  to  be  any  good  next 
day.  I  went  back  and  lifted  him,  snoring,  to  his 
feet.  *Come  on.  Mister,'  I  said,  *it's  your  watch.' 
And  I  heaved  him  gently  through  the  doorway  and 
along  the  alleyway.  I  was  nearly  carrying  him.  I 
don't  know  what  my  intention  really  was,  whether 
I  had  a  notion  the  outside  air  would  brace  him  up 
or  whether  I  was  going  to  tumble  him  down  the 
engine-room  ladder.  Anyhow,  we  were  staggering 
about  the  dark  alleyway  when  we  both  fell  with  a 
crash  against  the  Chief's  door.  It  was  the  most 
effectual  thing  I  could  have  contrived.  There  was 
a  growl  of  *  what's  that?'  from  the  Chief  and  he 
suddenly  sprang  out  in  his  pyjamas.  Seeing  only  me, 
he  shouted,  *What  you  making  all  this  row  about?' 
And  then  he  stumbled  over  old  Croasan.  I  laughed. 
I  couldn't  help  it.  All  the  while  I  was  explaining  to 
that  indignant  Chief  how  we  came  to  be  there  I  was 
uttering  cries  of  joy  in  my  heart  over  the  rich  hu- 
manity of  it  all.  It  was  sordid  and  silly  and  wrong, 
but  it  was  real.  The  Chief  lit  his  lamp  and  I  saw 
his  one  bright  eye  and  the  empty,  blood-red  socket 
glittering  in  the  radiance.  To  think  that  I  had 
been  mad  enough  to  feel  sick  of  the  Corydon!  I  felt 
as  if  I  had  suddenly  got  home  again.  And,  just  as 
suddenly,  old  Croasan  had  vanished.     I  looked  at 


164  ALIENS 

the  Chief  in  bewilderment.  He  eyed  me  solemnly, 
but  without  disfavour,  and  strode  along  to  our  cabin. 
Throwing  the  empty  bottle  through  the  port-hole, 
he  said  briefly,  'Get  yourself  turned  in,  IVIister,'  and 
went  back  to  his  own  room.  I  turned  in  quick,  you 
can  imagine.  It  had  been  a  great  day  for  me.  You 
may  think  it  strange,  but  I  look  back  at  it  as  one  of 
the  happiest  in  my  life.  Work!  Work!  It  is  the 
only  thing  that  keeps  us  sane  when  we're  young. 
All  else  is  only  bladder — nonsense.  Work  and  the 
knowledge  of  it,  and  the  planning  of  it.  Work,  and 
its  failures,  its  bitter  anxieties,  its  gleams  of  inspira- 
tion, its  mellow  accomplishment,  and  then  the 
blessed  oblivion! 

"Well,  four  voyages  I  made  in  that  old  packet, 
each  one  worse  than  the  last,  I  believe — ^four  voy- 
ages after  nuts,  and  palm-oil,  and  enormous  square 
logs  of  mahogany,  and  cages  of  snarling  leopards 
and  screaming  parrots,  and  tanks  of  stealthy  ser- 
pents. I  used  to  wonder  who  found  it  worth  while 
to  hire  us  to  bring  such  bizarre  and  useless  things 
into  England.  Once  one  of  the  twenty-five  hundred- 
weight barrels  of  palm  oil  slipped  from  the  slings 
and  fell  on  the  deck  with  a  soft  crash.  It  smashed 
like  an  egg,  of  course.  Indeed,  as  the  mess  burst 
and  splashed  all  over  everybody  on  the  after-deck, 
it  was  not  unlike  an  enormous  yolk  in  its  brilliant 
gamboge  colour,  with  the  split  and  dismembered 
staves  lying  radially  round  it  like  dirty  white  of  egg. 
And  someone  muttered  that  'there  was  twenty  quid 
gone.'  The  leopards,  too,  struck  me  on  the  home- 
ward trip.     Anything  less  like  the  traditional  wild 


ALIENS  165 

beast  of  the  jungle  you  couldn't  imagine.  Most  of 
them  were  mangy  and  had  eye-trouble  of  some  sort. 
They  would  stare  with  a  sort  of  rigid  horror  and 
indignation  at  the  dancing  blue  waves  over  side  for 
hours,  their  blank,  topaz  eye-balls  never  moving  un- 
less you  poked  with  a  stick,  when  the  brutes  would 
utter  a  cry  of  what  seemed  to  me  utter  despair  and 
settle  down  once  more  to  keep  the  ocean  under 
observation. 

"We  did  not  always  go  to  the  same  place.  In 
fact,  I  saw  very  little  of  Mister  George.  Railheads 
advance  with  our  sphere  of  influence.  But  I  stuck 
it,  and  put  in  my  year  of  service  for  my  license.  I 
was  saving  money  and  looking  forward  to  a  spell  in 
London.  All  the  other  people  I  knew  I  let  go.  I 
realized  I  had  been  all  the  time  an  ahen  in  that 
genteel  professional  world. 

"And  so,  one  day,  a  year  after  I'd  set  foot  on  the 
deck  of  that  old  ship,  I  said  good-bye  to  the  men 
I'd  sailed  with  and  took  the  train  to  Paddington. 
How  strange  I  felt  I  can't  explain.  As  the  cab  took 
me  down  the  familiar  streets  and  I  saw  the  old 
familiar  sights,  I  felt — well,  you'll  know  when  you 
go  back!  Something  had  snapped.  I  was  in  it,  but 
not  of  it.  I  saw  the  young  men  walking  in  the 
streets,  with  their  high  collars  and  nice  clothes, 
their  newspapers  and  walking-sticks  and  gloves. 
What  did  they  know?  I'd  been  like  that,  just  as 
ignorant,  just  as  conceited  and  narrow-minded. 
And  I  thought  of  the  Corydon  and  the  blue  tropic 
sea! 

"I  took  a  room  at  a  hotel  and  went  out  to  see  my 


166  ALIENS 

mother.  I  did  this  as  a  duty,  mind  you.  If  my 
brother  was  there  still  I  had  no  intention  of  staying 
long.  There  was  no  room  for  the  two  of  us  in  the 
same  house.  And  of  course,  I  had  a  great  desire  to 
know  if  they  were  married.    Humph! 

"I  found  my  mother  hving  alone.  He  was  gone 
again!  She,  Gladys,  was  gone  too.  They  hadn't 
been  married,  not  a  bit  of  it.  He  never  had  any 
intention  of  marrying  her.  It  was  very  difficult 
to  get  the  actual  story  out  of  my  mother.  She 
didn't  know  much,  and  she  was  reluctant  to  tell 
me  even  that.  But  I  found  out  at  last  that  she, 
Gladys,  had  followed  him.  Nobody  knew  where. 
He  had  given  up  his  agency  and  started  on  a  tour 
for  some  patent  tyre  company.  And  she,  at  the 
lifting  of  his  finger,  had  gone  after  him." 
;  IVIr.  Carville  paused  and  looked  towards  a  figure 
coming  into  view  on  the  path.  It  was  Miss  Fraenkel. 
I  looked  at  my  watch.    It  was  twelve  o'clock. 

"Miss  Fraenkel  is  coming  up  to  lunch,"  I  said  to 
BiU.    "  WiU  you  join  us,  Mr.  Carville?  " 
(    He  stood  up  shaking  his  head  and  brushing  the 
tobacco  ash  from  his  vest. 

"I'll  look  in  afterwards,"  he  said,  "but  I  told 
the  wife  I'd  be  back  to  dinner." 

"Where  was  she,  all  the  time,  Mr.  Carville?" 
asked  Bill. 

He  laughed  and  stepped  down  from  the  porch. 

"I  will  tell  you  this  afternoon,"  he  said,  and 
reached  the  side-walk  as  Miss  Fraenkel  crossed  the 
street.  He  lifted  his  hat  absently  and  passed  on, 
and  she,  pausing  for  a  moment,  gave  him  one  of 


ALIENS  167 

those  swift  and  searching  glances  with  which  her 
country-women  are  wont  to  appraise  us.  She  came 
on  up  to  us. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  sooner?"  said  Bill,  "we've 
been  expecting  you." 

"I've  been  getting  signatures,"  she  replied.  "Is 
that  him?" 

"Yes.    He's  coming  back  after  lunch." 

"Did  you  tell  him  that  I  want  to  get  his  wife  to 
join?" 

We  were  silent.  We  had  forgotten  all  about  Miss 
Fraenkel's  suffrage.  She  scanned  our  faces  with  an 
eager  look  in  her  hazel  eyes.    I  made  an  effort. 

"We  thought,"  I  said,  "we  thought  that  perhaps 
you  would  be  able  to  explain  better  than  we  could 
how " 

"Why,  what  have  you  been  talking  about,  then?'* 
she  asked. 

"We  haven't  been  talking,"  I  replied,  looking  at 
the  little  brass  pilgrim  on  the  door.  "We've  been 
Kstening." 

And  then  we  went  in  to  luHch. 


CHAPTER  IX 

We  Await  Developments 

IF  it  were  necessary  to  epitomize  our  attitude  to- 
wards Mr.  Carville  during  that  lunch,  it  might 
perhaps  be  discovered  in  the  word  "doubt." 
Without  accusing  him  of  intentional  deception, 
he  had  certainly  led  us  to  believe  that  he  would 
explain  to  us  the  many  points  of  interest  which 
his  previous  history  had  raised.  We  had  felt  quite 
sure  that  in  the  course  of  the  morning  we  should 
learn  of  his  meeting  with  his  wife  and  the  reasons 
which  led  them  to  make  their  home  in  the  United 
States.  We  expected  to  have  the  mystery  of  the 
prodigal  brother  co-ordinated  with  the  painter- 
cousin's  story.  We — but  of  what  avail  was  it  to 
grumble.'*  He  had  set  out  to  tell  his  tale  in  his  own 
way  and  it  was  only  right  that  we  should  permit  him 
to  do  so. 

In  one  thing  I  agreed  with  Bill  and  differed  from 
Mac — the  question  of  "Gladys." 

"So  her  name's  ' Gladys '.f*"  said  he,  when  he  had 
brought  Miss  Fraenkel's  knowledge  up  to  date. 

"Oh,  no!"  exclaimed  Bill.    "Oh,  no!" 

"He  said  so,"  persisted  her  husband. 

"No,"  I  said,  "so  far  he  has  not  mentioned  Mrs. 
Carville." 

He  came  round  to  our  view  in  the  end,  when  I 
reminded  him  of  the  scaldino.  Personally,  the  idea 
was  incredible.     When  I  thought  of  Mrs,  Carville 

168 


ALIENS  169 

bending  over  the  brazier,  of  her  dark,  noble  face 
with  its  large  tragic  eyes,  and  then  of  the  smart 
convent-bred  miss  who  was  called  Gladys — absurd! 

Miss  Fraenkel  remained  faithful  to  her  mission 
throughout  the  meal,  and  enlisted  our  sympathy 
by  recounting  the  struggles  of  Mrs.  Wederslen  to 
capture  the  league  for  her  own  social  purposes. 
It  was  an  old  story,  this  of  the  ambition  of  Mrs. 
Wederslen.  Mrs.  Wederslen  seemed  to  think  that 
in  a  community  of  artists  the  art-critic's  wife  is 
queen.  Mrs.  Williams  had  rebelled  against  this, 
and  there  was  tension  between  them.  Mrs.  Wed- 
erslen had  even  made  the  insane  experiment  of  try- 
ing to  patronize  Bill.  There  had  been  a  meeting,  a 
few  words  on  each  side,  and  the  rest  was  silence. 
Without  any  definite  verbal  information  on  the 
point,  Mac  and  I  knew  that  Bill's  tongue  would  be 
stilled  in  death  ere  she  would  speak  charitably  of 
Mrs.  Wederslen.  And  here  were  Miss  Fraenkel's 
piquant  features  aglow  with  a  flush  of  indignation 
and  her  hazel  eyes  aflame  with  ladylike  resentment, 
because  that  imperious  woman  was  endeavouring  to 
assert  her  sovereignty  over  the  league.  In  the 
great  problems  thus  raised  it  seemed  likely  that  the 
smaller  matter  of  Mrs.  Carville's  allegiance  might  be 
swamped.  I  endeavoured  to  bring  this  discussion 
into  alignment  with  my  own  imaginings,  a  common 
human  weakness. 

"But  perhaps  she's  like  me,  hasn't  got  a  vote," 
said  Bill. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Fraenkel,  "she  may  have  some 
day.    And  anyhow,  the  great  thing  is  to  spread  the 


170  ALIENS 

light  in  dark  places.  We  want  every  woman  to 
know  her  power.    IVIrs.  Wederslen " 

She  began  again.  Mrs.  Wederslen  had  done  the 
one  thing  needful  to  rouse  Miss  Fraenkel's  feelings 
towards  her  to  the  temperature  of  Bill's:  she  had 
expressed  her  opinion  that  civil  servants  should  be 
debarred  from  political  activity.  In  spite  of  my 
efforts,  the  conversation  became  sectional.  Mac 
motioned  me  to  join  him  on  the  porch  for  a  smoke. 

"What  do  you  think.'*"  he  said,  when  he  had 
lighted  up. 

"The  time  is  past  for  imaginative  forecast,"  I 
replied.  "It  is  obvious  that  Mr.  Carville,  having 
been  tremendously  interested  in  his  own  life,  is 
determined  to  tell  us  all  about  it.  Before  lunch 
I  hardly  knew  what  to  think,  but  now  I  feel  fairly 
.certain  that  he  will  bring  us  safely  to  the  con- 
clusion." 

"There  never  is  a  conclusion  to  stories  in  real 
life,"  said  he. 

"Well,  you  know  what  I  mean.  He'll  account 
for  the  facts  as  we  see  them,  anyhow.  His  wife,  his 
brother,  his  living  here,  and  so  on." 

"And  Gladys,"  added  Mac. 

"Ah!  I  expect  we've  heard  the  last  of  Gladys. 
She  was  evidently  an  early  flame,  since  gone  out." 
I  struck  a  match. 

"I  say,  old  man." 

"What.?" 

"What  a  tale  his  brother  could  tell,  eh?" 

"Possibly;  but  perhaps  his  brother  has  not  the 
faculty,"  I  said. 


ALIENS  171 

"No.    Here  he  comes!" 

Mr.  Carville  appeared  on  the  sidewalk,  his  Derby 
hat  on  his  head,  his  corn-cob  in  his  mouth.  For  a 
moment  he  turned,  and,  looking  back,  flung  out  his 
hand  with  a  gesture  expressive  of  petulance  and  dis- 
missal towards  an  invisible  person  at  his  door.  And 
then  he  came  towards  us  sedately,  caressing  his  pipe, 
eyes  on  the  ground,  and  seated  himself  in  the  Fourth 
Chair  in  silence. 

"I  was  wondering,"  he  said  at  last,  "if  after  all 
you'd  just  as  soon  I  didn't  tell  you  all  this  about 
myself  and  got  right  on  to  my  married  life.    Eh?" 

"Speaking  for  myself,"  I  said,  hastily,  "no! 
Please  tell  your  story  as  you  have  it  in  your  mind. 
Don't  edit  it.    I'll  do  that." 

He  gave  me  one  of  his  quick  looks  and  smiled. 

"Right!"  he  said,  and  shook  himself  straight  in 
his  chair.  "I'll  get  busy.  I've  got  to  get  the  five 
o'clock  train,  and  the  wife — she  said  she'd  have  a  bit 
of  tea  ready  for  me  at  four." 

He  sat  at  the  far  end  of  the  verandah,  the  furled 
hammock  tickling  his  ears,  and  he  shifted  the  chair 
so  that  he  faced  north,  looking  towards  his  own 
house.  As  he  opened  his  mouth  to  replace  his  pipe. 
Bill  opened  the  door  and  led  Miss  Fraenkel  out  to  be 
introduced. 

It  was  a  ceremonious  bow  with  which  Mr.  Car- 
ville greeted  her  as  he  rose.  He  did  not  offer  to 
shake  hands,  as  middle-class  people  generally  do,  to 
their  credit.  He  gave  her  one  square  look  and  then 
dropped  his  eyes,  and  I  couldn't  detect  him  even 
glancing  at  her  again.    He  seemed  to  have  made  a 


172  ALIENS 

brief  examination  and  then  dismissed  her  from  his 
memory. 

The  problem  of  chairs  was  instantly  solved  by 
Bill.  She  opened  the  window  and  she  and  Miss 
Fraenkel  sat  inside.  Mr.  Carville  studied  the  toe 
of  his  plain  serviceable  boot  while  these  arrange- 
ments were  being  carried  out.  He  sat  motionless 
in  the  Fourth  Chair,  and  I  could  not  help  feeling 
that  the  business  of  transferring  Miss  Fraenkel 
established  Mr.  Carville's  inahenable  right  to  his 
seat. 

"Full  speed  ahead!"  said  Mac,  jocularly. 

"I  ought  to  explain,"  said  Mr.  Carville,  "that 
as  the  years  had  gone  by,  my  mother  and  I  had 
ceased  to  have  very  much  sympathy  with  each 
other's  way  of  thinking.  We  had  lived  together, 
as  was  natural,  but  we  had  gradually  lost  sight  of 
the  career  my  father  had  outlined  for  me.  And 
when  I  had  lost  my  job  in  Victoria  Street,  really 
that  was  the  last  link  that  snapped.  I  had  no 
fancy  for  living  in  Oakleigh  Park,  especially  after 
what  had  happened  to  Gladys.  You  can  under- 
stand that. 

"Another  thing.  I  had  become  in  a  small  way 
an  author.  Don't  imagine  that  I'm  setting  up 
myself  with  you,  sir.  Not  at  all.  I  understand, 
I  hope,  now,  the  difference  between  writing  a  book 
and  being  an  author.  It  was  this  way.  To  me, 
breaking  into  sea-life  so  sharp  and  suddenlike,  there 
were  many  things  I  noted  that  most  men  would 
never  heed.  I  don't  heed  them  myself  now.  But 
then  I  did.     And  in  port  on  Sundays,  and  some- 


ALIENS  173 

times  at  sea  when  I  couldn't  sleep  on  the  middle- 
watch,  I'd  jot  down  little  thumb-nail  sketches,  you 
might  call  them,  of  the  things  I  saw.  'Cameos  of 
the  Sea,'  I'd  put  on  the  top.  The  whole  thing 
wasn't  as  long  as  some  of  the  chapters  in  Gibbon's 
'Decline  and  Fall,'  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  had 
no  great  opinion  of  them.  I  only  mention  them  be- 
cause of  what  happened.  I  had  the  sheets  tied  up 
in  brown  paper  in  my  sailor-bag. 

"Well,  I  told  my  mother  I  wanted  to  live  in 
London  awhile,  and  as  I  needed  to  be  within  reach 
of  the  Board  of  Trade  Offices  until  I  had  passed 
my  exam.,  she  saw  no  good  reason  for  objecting. 
The  next  day,  as  I  was  walking  up  the  Strand,  one 
of  those  streets  in  London  that  I've  never  seen 
anywhere  else,  I  caught  sight  of  an  old  gateway  at 
the  end  of  a  passage.  There  was  a  date,  1570  or 
something  as  old,  on  the  arch,  and  as  I  strolled  in  I 
remembered  I'd  called  on  an  architect  who  lived 
there  in  the  old  days,  when  I  was  in  Victoria  Street. 
It  was  Clifford's  Inn.  I  was  looking  round  at  the 
old  houses  and  wondering  if  I  could  hire  a  room 
or  so  there,  when  a  girl  came  down  one  of  the  stair- 
cases. 

"Well,  I  didn't  recognize  her  at  first.  I  remem- 
ber wondering  why  she  jumped  back  when  she 
caught  sight  of  me.  'Hullo!'  I  said,  'what  are  you 
doing  here.'*'  *I  live  here,'  she  said;  and  sure  enough 
there  was  her  name  on  the  wall,  bracketed  with  an- 
other one:  Miss  Gladys  Sayiders  and  Miss  Octavia  Flagg. 

"'You!'  I  said.  'You  live  here?'  She  nodded 
and  asked  me  if  I  would  come  up.    We  went  up  the 


174  ALIENS 

dusty  old  stairs  to  the  top  floor,  and  she  took  a 
key  from  her  purse  and  opened  the  door.  I  felt 
there  was  something  pretty  brazen  about  all  this. 
This  wasn't  the  sort  of  thing  to  appeal  to  Oakleigh 
Park,  I  was  quite  sure,  and  said  so.  'Oh,  I've  done 
with  Oakleigh  Park,'  she  said,  'and  they've  done 
with  me.'  And  then  her  friend.  Miss  Flagg,  came 
in,  a  thin  woman  of  about  thirty-five,  with  a  green 
dress  and  rather  untidy  hair.  I  said  thin,  but  so  was 
Gladys.  It  almost  seemed  to  me,  when  I'd  seen 
them  a  few  times,  that  there  was  some  fierce  fire 
inside  of  those  women,  wearing  them  thin  and  show- 
ing through.  Neither  of  them  was  beautiful;  they 
didn't  try  to  be.  They  just  lived  for — what  do  you 
think.''    I'll  tell  you  in  a  minute. 

"At  first  I  was  all  abroad  at  the  sudden  meeting. 
A  minute  before  Gladys  came  down  that  staircase, 
if  you'd  asked  me  whether  I  cared  for  her  I'd  have 
said  no;  it  was  all  burned  up  long  ago.  But  now 
I'd  seen  her  again,  thin  and  sallow  and  changed  as 
she  was,  it  had  all  come  back  with  a  rush.  Do  you 
know  that  kind  of  love?  It's  because  of  the  way  it 
rushes  back  on  you,  knocks  you  down  and  tramples 
on  you,  makes  you  feel  mean  and  degraded  and 
ashamed,  that  I  pray  God  it  may  never  happen  on 
me  again.  I  like  to  think  a  man  may  never  have  it 
but  for  one  woman.  Sometimes,  away  out  East, 
when  I've  been  drowsing  in  a  hammock  listening  to 
the  sweat  dripping  on  the  deck  and  watching  the 
blue  hills  in  the  distance,  it  has  come  upon  me. 
Sometimes  in  dreams  I've  seen  her  face  clearer 
than  I  ever  saw  it  in  life.  ,    ,    ,  You  kiiow  them. 


ALIENS  175 

perhaps?  .  .  .  Dreams  so  vivid  that  one's  brain 
and  body  ache  with  the  pain  of  it?    Ah!" 

He  paused  and  none  offered  to  speak.  I  sat 
facing  him  in  some  astonishment.  There  was  to 
me  something  fundamentally  shocking  in  a  man 
making  such  a  confession.  If  it  had  been  dark 
so  that  the  words  floated  to  us  invisibly;  but  in 
broad  day!  Perhaps  more  convincingly  than  any- 
thing else  did  this  impress  upon  my  mind  Mr. 
Carville's  deliberate  intention  to  fashion  for  us  a 
tale  from  the  agony  of  his  life,  to  give  us,  with  such 
art  as  he  possessed,  a  picture  of  an  obscure  and 
alien  romance. 

"Miss  Flagg,  it  seems,  was  a  journalist,  and 
Gladys — well,  she  was  a  journalist  too,  I  suppose. 
From  what  she  told  me  I  gathered  she  did  transla- 
tions for  different  agencies,  and  earned  a  little  that 
way.  When  I  told  them  what  I'd  come  in  for,  they 
said  there  was  a  flat  in  Serjeant's  Inn  just  around 
the  corner,  which  was  to  be  let  furnished.  I  told 
them  I  was  going  in  for  an  exam,  and  afterwards  I 
was  going  to  take  my  little  papers  to  a  publisher. 
Miss  Flagg  lit  up  like  a  bonfire  at  this,  and  says  she, 
*I'm  a  literary  agent.  Do  let  me  read  it;  I  may  be 
able  to  place  it.' 

"I  looked  at  her.  To  my  mind  she  didn't  seem 
the  sort  of  woman  who  would  understand  the  things 
I'd  been  writing  about;  old  Croasan  and  the  Chief 
with  the  glass  eye,  the  firemen  and  all  the  rest  of 
them.  However,  I  said  I'd  let  her  have  it  if  she 
liked.  Gladys  looked  at  me  when  I  came  out  as  an 
author.     She'd  never  had  any  opinion  of  me,  you 


176  ALIENS 

see.  She  liked  clever  people,  people  with  flash  and 
gUtter,  who  could  dance  and  talk  with  a  spatter 
about  everything — ^like  my  brother.  You  can  be- 
lieve I  wanted  to  know  why  she'd  left  him,  if  she'd 
ever  gone  to  him.  I  said,  'I  thought  you  were  going 
out  when  I  saw  you,'  and  she  took  the  hint.  We 
went  down  again  and  out  into  the  Strand. 

'"Is  it  any  use.'*'  I  said,  and  the  big  Law  Courts' 
clock  boomed  out  over  our  heads.  It  sounded  like 
NO  in  my  ears. 

"She  shook  her  head.  'Quite  impossible,'  she 
said.    'Well,  where's  Frank?'  I  asked  her. 

"She  didn't  know.  He'd  dropped  her  just  the 
same  as  he  dropped  anything  else  he  had  no  use  for, 
without  a  word.  And  I  think  it  was  shame  more 
than  because  she  didn't  care  for  me  that  made 
her  say  it  was  impossible.  I  don't  know — what  is  a 
woman's  pride,  anyhow?  See  how  he'd  treated  her; 
worse  than  I'd  treat  my  dog.  And  yet  when  he 
came  back,  flush  with  money  and  with  flash  friends, 
and  he  lifted  his  hand,  she  ran  to  him,  ran!  Ex- 
plain it  if  you  can.    I  can't. 

"That  was  later.  I  got  my  flat  and  passed  my 
exam,  all  right,  and  my  uncle  in  Fenchurch  Street 
said  I  could  have  a  job  as  soon  as  I  hked.  But 
I  thought  I'd  wait  a  bit.  I  was  seeing  London 
from  a  fresh  angle,  you  might  say;  seeing  it  as 
an  outsider,  as  an  alien.  I  had  about  a  hundred 
pounds  to  spend,  and  in  a  modest  quiet  way  I 
enjoyed  myself.  The  razzle-dazzle  of  London 
doesn't  appeal  to  a  man  much,  when  he's  been  on 
the  bend  in  seaports.    Humph! 


ALIENS  177 

"And  Miss  Flagg  took  my  manuscript  and  went 
crazy  about  it.  She  said  she  sat  up  all  night  to 
read  it.  Knowing  what  I  do  of  women  now,  I 
think  she  was  a  liar.  Besides,  anyone  could  read 
it  in  two  or  three  hours.  The  point  is  she  told 
the  publisher  that  lie,  and  he  believed  it.  Her 
enthusiasm  was  contagious.  He  said  it  was  fine, 
and  gave  me  ten  pounds  for  it.  Miss  Flagg  said 
it  was  a  generous  offer  and  raked  off  a  sovereign 
for  her  commission.  I  often  wonder  how  authors 
bear  up  under  such  generosity.  But  of  course  I 
know  nothing  about  the  business  side  of  it.  Only 
for  a  short  time  did  I  get  bitten  about  the  idea  of 
being  an  author.  I  found  I  had  nothing  to  say. 
Miss  Flagg  told  me  she  knew  a  man  who  'did  fic- 
tion' at  the  rate  of  twenty  thousand  words  a 
week.  She  might  have  lied,  but  then,  how  do 
I  know.f*  Anyway,  I  saw  it  wasn't  in  my  line — 
'fiction.' 

"You  see,  when  I  went  to  their  flat  and  met  their 
literary  friends  and  heard  them  talking  about  their 
work,  I  felt  out  of  it.  I  was  an  alien  in  their  world. 
I  had  no  interest  in  the  details  of  book-writing.  I'd 
just  put  down  what  happened  to  come  into  my 
mind.  I  wondered  what  they  wrote  about.  Love 
I  suppose.  I'd  sit  and  look  about  me  and  try  to 
imagine  what  those  people  would  have  thought  of 
the  old  CorydorCs  engine-room.  Humph!  Do  you 
know  what  those  thin,  half-fed  men  and  women 
thought  the  most  important  thing  in  the  world  .^^ 
Not  husbands  and  wives  and  children,  not  war,  nor 
even  courage;  not  books  nor  pictures;  nothing  of 


178  ALIENS 

this.  No;  they  were  wearing  their  souls  out  clam- 
ouring for  a  VoteV 

We  sat  very  still.  You  could  have  heaxd  a  pin 
drop. 

"There  was  Gladys.  She  was  only  nineteen,  and 
ought  to  have  been  helping  her  mother  at  home; 
but  no,  she  was  emancipated,  as  she  called  it.  Her 
experience  with  my  brother  taught  her  that  the 
Vote  w^as  necessary.  Miss  Flagg  told  me  that  unless 
women  got  the  Vote  England  would  drop  behind. 
They  all  said  that.  To  me  it  was  amazing.  It 
showed  me  how  far  I'd  travelled  away  from  the  old 
ideas.  It  angered  me  to  see  women  acting  like  that, 
spoiling  themselves,  making  themselves  ridiculous 
and  ugly,  all  for  that! 

"I'd  been  home  a  couple  of  months,  not  more, 
when  I  began  to  get  restless.  My  mother  asked 
me  why  I  didn't  get  a  job  on  shore.  But  I  couldn't 
see  myself  going  to  Victoria  Street  every  day,  clean 
collar  and  umbrella,  sitting  at  a  desk  dictating  silly 
little  letters  to  silly  little  people.  Those  who  wanted 
it  let  them  do  it.  I  went  to  my  uncle  and  asked  for 
a  job.  His  eyes  twinkled  when  he  said,  *Well,  the 
CorydorCs  chartered  for  the  Mediterranean,  and  they 
want  a  Second.' 

"'When  shall  I  join.?' I  said. 

"'Oh,  I  was  only  joking,'  says  he.  'We'll  get 
you  a  better  ship  than  that  now.' 

"'No,'  I  said,  'I'll  go  back  to  the  Corydon.  I 
know  her  and  she  knows  me.    When  shall  I  join?"* 

Again  Mr.  Carville  paused,  and  appeared  to  be 
lost  in   thought,   oblivious   of   our   presence.     An 


ALIENS  179 

expression  of  gentle  earnestness  had  settled  upon 
his  face,  almost  melancholy.  I  imagined  for  a 
moment  that  he  was  endeavouring  to  arrange  his 
thoughts. 

"I  do  hope,"  he  remarked,  without  looking  at 
us,  "I  do  hope  that  anything  I've  said  hasn't 
given  offence."  He  turned  to  us  with  a  slight 
smile.  "I  mix  up  so  Httle  with  genteel  people 
nowadays — you  see.'^ " 

I  nodded  vaguely,  and  he  relapsed  into  thought 
again. 

"I  was  thinking,"  he  observed  presently,  "as 
you  are  so  quiet,  I  might  have  said  something.  I 
remember  that  was  the  way  they  signified  dissent, 
so  to  speak.  And — I  wouldn't  like  to  offend — 
anybody. 

"Pray  go  on,"  I  said.  "We  are  not  genteel  in 
that  sense  of  the  word." 

It  was  plain  that,  apart  from  any  scruples  con- 
cerning our  gentility,  he  had  some  difficulty  in 
picking  up  the  thread  of  his  story.  It  was  a  relief 
when  he  began  to  speak. 

"I  come  now,"  he  said,  "to  a  time  that  I  hardly 
know  how  to  describe.  The  next  few  years,  taken 
together,  were  my  Wanderjdhre.  You  know  Wil- 
helm  Meister,  of  course?  My  apprenticeship  was 
over,  but  I  wasn't  a  man  yet  for  all  that.  There's 
an  intermediate  stage,  what  we  engineers  call  being 
*an  improver,'  in  a  man's  life.  It  seems  strange 
that  I  should  speak  of  myself  so  at  twenty-seven, 
but  there  it  is;  I  was  late  maturing.  Again,  I  like 
to  think  that  the  Dutch  are  right  when  they  use 


180  ALIENS 

the  same  word  for  husband  and  man.  Until  he  is 
married  a  Dutchman  is  not  a  'Man.'  That's  how 
I  looked  at  it! 

"When  I  rejoined  the  Corydon,  the  Chief  said 
the  Second  was  going  to  stay  on  one  more  trip, 
but  old  Croasan  was  clearing  out  and  I  could  go 
Third.  I  wouldn't  mention  these  details,  only  they 
are  important,  because — well,  you'll  see. 

"Old  Croasan  was  going  ashore  when  I  joined. 
Didn't  even  shake  hands  with  the  Chief!  I  thought 
he  was  going  home  to  the  bonny  Scotland  he  al- 
ways shouted  about  when  he  was  canned,  but  the 
Second  says,  *Na,  na.  He'll  never  go  back  to 
Grangemouth,'  and  Chief  says,  'He'll  get  a  job  all 
right,  all  right.'  Well,  I  was  busy  enough  with  my 
own  concerns,  and,  as  usual,  there  was  a-plenty  to 
do  on  the  Corydon;  but  one  evening  I  was  up  at 
Cully's  Hotel  talking  to  Miss  Bevan,  when  in  walks 
a  smart,  tidy-looking  man  of,  say,  forty-five,  and 
calls  for  a  bottle  of  Bass.  I  wouldn't  have  given 
him  more  than  a  passing  glance  if  he  hadn't  looked 
me  in  the  eye.  'Eh,  lad,'  says  he.  'Will  ye  have  a 
drink?'  'Croasan.?'  I  said.  *Ah,  it's  me,'  says  he. 
'Ah'm  away  the  morn  in  yon  big  turret.' 

"I  was  that  astonished  I  couldn't  reply,  and  he 
drank  up  his  beer  and  went  out  with  a  wave  of 
the  hand.  Miss  Bevan  asked  me  if  I  knew  him. 
'Sure,'  I  said,  'but  he  was  old  and  grey  three  days 
ago.*  It  was  my  first  experience  of  a  sea-faker. 
He'd  been  up  to  Cardiff,  had  a  Turkish  bath,  hair- 
cut and  shave,  and  the  barber  had  dyed  his  hair 
and   moustache.      Then   he'd   gone   round   to   the 


ALIENS  181 

offices  and  eventually  got  a  job.  Of  course,  the 
first  green  sea  tliat  went  over  him  would  add  twenty 
years  to  his  age,  but  he'd  be  signed  on  then.  The 
Chief  laughed  when  I  told  him.  'And  you'll  see 
him  in  Genoa,'  he  says;  'yon  turret  steamer's  goin' 
there  too.'  I  did  see  him.  In  a  way,  he  introduced 
me  to  my  wife." 

]VIr.  Carville  paused  and  struck  a  match.  Bill's 
head  appeared  at  the  window. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  "I  thought  you  were  never  com- 
ing to  it!" 

He  proceeded,  carefully  putting  the  burnt  match 
on  the  window-sill  and  blowing  great  clouds. 

"The  run  to  Genoa  from  the  Tyne,"  he  said, 
"takes  a  fortnight.  It  was  during  that  voyage 
that  I  began  to  see  how  I  stood  with  regard  to 
Gladys.  I  suppose  you  read  Ibsen?  I  used  to,  on 
the  Corydon,  and  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  his 
plays,  in  my  opinion,  is  Lovers  Comedy.  You  re- 
member the  moral  of  that  play  was  that  a  man 
should  never  marry  a  girl  he  is  madly  in  love  with. 
It  sounds  wicked  if  you  put  it  that  way,  but  old 
Ibsen  was  right.  He  knew,  as  I  knew,  that  a  young 
man  may  be  in  love  with  a  girl  who  is  not  suited  to 
him.  He  knew  that  there  isn't  much  difference 
between  that  sort  of  love  and  hatey  He  knew  that 
you  can  have  a  contempt  for  a  girl  and  her  ideals 
and  yet  love  her.  That  sort  of  love  is  like  those  big 
thin  bowls  they  showed  me  in  Japan— beautiful, 
expensive  and  awful  frail — no  use  at  all  for  domes- 
tic purposes.  I  thought  this  out  on  the  voyage  to 
Genoa,  and  put  Gladys,  so  to  speak,  on  a  shelf. 


182  ALIENS 

where  she  is  now.  And  as  I  thought  it  out,  I  saw 
how  I  stood.  I  saw  I  was  not  only  an  ahen  wherever 
I  went,  but  I  was  alone.  I  began  to  be  afraid.  I 
used  to  look  ahead  and  tried  to  see  myself  in  twenty 
years'  time,  alone.  It  is  not  good  for  a  man  to  be 
alone.    That's  how  I  felt  when  we  reached  Genoa. 

"Those  who  know  best  often  say  that  sailor- 
men  know  less  about  foreign  countries  than  many 
people  who  have  never  travelled.  I  daresay  that 
is  true  of  many  of  us.  It  is  very  likely  true  of 
any  uneducated  people  who  go  abroad.  Most  men 
who  go  to  sea  have  very  little  education.  They 
have  no  knowledge  of  their  own  country,  let  alone 
others.  To  a  certain  extent  I  was  different.  I 
had  always  wanted  to  see  Italy.  Years  before, 
when  I  was  in  Victoria  Street,  I  had  read  about 
her  history  and  art.  I  had  even  learned  a  little  of 
the  language.  And  so,  when  we  came  into  Genoa, 
and  I  saw  that  beautiful  city,  with  her  white  pal- 
aces and  green  domes  and  fort-crowned  hills,  when 
I  remembered  what  she'd  been,  and  saw  what  she 
was,  I  could  hardly  wait  till  nightfall  to  go  ashore 
arid  see  it  all  at  once! 

"Since  then  I've  been  to  nearly  every  port  in 
the  Mediterranean,  from  Gibraltar  to  Smyrna  and 
from  Marseilles  to  Tunis,  but  I  never  experienced 
anything  like  that  first  night  ashore  in  Genoa. 
The  next  day  the  Chief  asked  me  where  I'd  been, 
and  I  told  him.  'Why,'  he  says,  'didn't  you  go 
into  the  "Isle  o'  Man"  or  the  "American"?'  No, 
I  hadn't  been  in  any  of  those  places.  He  said  they'd 
have  to  show  me  round. 


ALIENS  183 

"That  night  I  went  with  them,  leaving  the  new 
Fourth  in  charge,  and  I  learned  why  sailormen 
know  so  little  of  foreign  places.  All  along  the 
Front,  as  they  call  it,  were  scores  of  dirty  little 
bars  with  English  names.  I  wouldn't  mention 
them  at  all,  only  it  is  necessary  in  a  way,  as  you'll 
see.  We  went  into  several  and  had  a  drink,  and 
the  Chief  was  known  in  them  all.  Finally  the 
Chief  says,  'Let's  get  on  to  the  "Isle  o'  Man,"' 
and  we  went  out  and  walked  along  the  Via  Milano 
a  little  further.  The  'Isle  o'  Man'  was  rather  bigger 
than  most  of  these  places,  and  had  a  very  com- 
fortable room  with  plush  settees  and  marble  tables 
shut  off  from  the  main  caf€.  It  was  kept  by  a  big, 
heavy,  red-haired  woman,  about  fifty  years  old, 
who  came  in  and  sat  down  by  the  Chief  and  talked 
about  old  times.  I  found  she  was  married  to  a 
steward  in  the  Hamburg-American  Line,  who  ran 
this  show  on  the  side.  It  was  a  mixed  company 
in  there,  skippers  of  all  nations  sitting  round  and 
drinking;  and  a  tall  young  chap,  with  a  velvet 
coat  and  long  hair,  was  playing  a  piano  and  sing- 
ing songs.  After  every  song  he  would  come  round 
with  a  tin  saucer  and  collect  pennies  from  us.  I 
remember  thinking  how  strange  he  looked.  He 
had  a  noble  face,  I  should  call  it;  he  looked  like 
a  gentleman  and  spoke  like  one,  and  there  he 
was,  collecting  pennies!  I  was  watching  him  com- 
ing round  to  our  table  when  a  girl  came  in,  a  tall, 
dark  young  girl,  with  a  tray  of  glasses.  'Hello!' 
says  the  Chief,  'that's  not  Rosa,  is  it?'  The  old 
woman   nods   and    says,    'That's   Rosa    all    right, 


184  ALIENS 

Chief.'  And  he  called  out  to  the  girl  to  come  over 
to  us. 

"She  came  at  once.  'Here's  a  friend  o'  yours, 
Rosa,'  says  the  old  woman,  and  the  girl  looks  at 
the  Chief  and  smiles  a  Httle.  'Why,  she  was  only 
so  high  last  time  I  was  here,'  says  the  Chief.  'She 
has  shot  up.'  ,  *  Yes,'  says  the  old  woman,  who 
was  called  Rebecca,  'she'll  be  a  fine  woman  one  o' 
these  days.' 

"They  told  me  about  her  as  we  went  back  to 
the  ship.  No  one  knew  who  her  parents  were.  She 
had  always  been  at  the  'Isle  o'  Man,'  and  sailor- 
men  had  petted  her  because  she  was  a  nice  Httle 
thing  and  would  rap  out  a  bit  of  slang  without 
knowing  in  the  least  what  it  meant.  But  now, 
as  the  Chief  said,  it  was  a  different  matter.  She 
was  'too  big  to  kiss  now.'  One  point  in  her  his- 
tory I  was  very  interested  in,  and  that  was  the 
fact  that  neither  the  Chief  nor  anyone  else  I  ever 
heard  speak  of  her  ever  suggested  that  she  wasn't 
straight.  I  liked  that.  There  she  was,  living  among 
all  the  draggled,  dirty  seaport  crowd,  and  yet  the 
seafaring  men  that  took  their  drinks  from  her  be- 
lieved she  was  straight. 

"I  was  coming  down  from  the  theatre  one  night 
about  a  week  later,  and  I  thought  I'd  look  in  at  the 
'Isle  o'  Man'  for  a  drink  before  going  aboard. 
There  was  a  good  few  in  there,  Greek  and  Nor- 
wegian skippers;  and  a  Belgian  engineer  was  sitting 
across  from  me  with  old  Croasan.  The  piano  was 
going  with  Little  Dolly  Daydream,  Pride  of  Idaho, 
when  in  comes  Rosa  with  her  tray.     To  get  past 


ALIENS  185 

she  had  to  squeeze  between  old  Croasan's  table 
and  the  piano,  and  I  saw  him  take  hold  of  her 
waist.  She  was  hampered  by  the  tray,  and  he 
was  pulling  her  down  on  his  knee. 

"I  don't  think  it  was  all  gallantry  that  made  me 
do  what  I  did.  I'd  never  been  a  whale  on  that 
sort  of  thing.  I'm  not  built  on  those  lines.  I 
think  it  was  a  feeling  that  has  always  possessed 
me  very  strongly  when  I  see  an  old  man  with  a 
young  woman — disgust.  To  me  it  is  a  horrible 
sight,  the  lust  of  an  old  man.  You  can  argue  as 
long  as  you  like,  but  that  is  one  of  my  fixed  eternal 
prejudices.  I  feel  sick  when  I  see  an  old  man  giving 
way  to  it.  I  feel  that  somehow  or  other  he  is  de- 
basing humanity.  That  was  the  real  reason  why  I 
jumped  up  and  went  over  to  Croasan. 

"He  looked  up  at  me  as  I  stood  over  the  table. 
I  could  see  the  crease  in  his  cheeks,  the  sag  under 
his  eyes,  and  the  grey  roots  of  his  dyed  moustache. 
He  looked  up  at  me  as  I  raised  my  hand.  *Let 
her  go,'  I  said,  shouting  at  him  above  the  jangle 
of  the  piano,  'let  her  go,  Mr.  Croasan.'  He  was 
holding  her  down  on  his  knee. 

"'Mind  your  own  affairs!'  he  says  to  me,  show- 
ing his  teeth,  great  dirty  yellow  fangs;  'Is  she 
yours.?'  he  says.  The  Belgian  engineer  sitting  near 
him  laughed  at  this  and  looked  up  sneering  at  me. 
*Let  her  go,*  I  said  again.  'Rosa's  a  friend  of 
mine,'  says  he,  still  holding  her.  Just  then  I  saw 
Rebecca's  head  over  the  piano,  and  as  I  looked 
down  again  I  saw  a  peculiar  expression  on  Rosa's 
face.     Her  eyes  were  on  me  and  she  seemed  to  be 


186  ALIENS 

thinking  *"VMiat  are  you  waiting  for?*  It  all  hap- 
pened, you  know,  in  two  or  three  seconds.  I  waited 
no  more.  I  put  the  flat  of  my  hand  across  Croasan's 
mouth,  hard.  He  jerked  back  to  avoid  it,  and  the 
tray  that  Rosa  was  trying  to  set  down  on  the  table, 
so  that  she  could  get  at  him  with  her  nails,  went  all 
over  him.  The  old  woman  came  round  the  piano 
and  saw  him.  Croasan  started  up  and  I  hit  him 
again,  and  he  fell  over  the  Belgian. 

"At  first  I  thought  I  was  in  for  a  big  row.  But 
Croasan  had  more  experience  than  I  had.  He'd 
been  in  rows  before.  When  he  started  up  it  was 
not  to  hit  me,  but  to  get  out.  He  crawled  under 
the  table  between  the  Belgian's  legs  and  ran  to  the 
door.  The  others  were  crowding  all  round  me, 
arguing  and  shouting.  The  young  chap  at  the 
piano  was  standing  up  and  looking  over  the  top, 
and  Rebecca  was  trying  to  calm  them.  'Easy, 
gentlemen!'  she  kept  on  calling.  Rosa  had  disap- 
peared. Then  the  Belgian  jumped  up  and  shouted, 
*Ee  interfere  wis  my  frien'!'  pointing  at  me,  and 
marching  out. 

"When  we  got  quiet  again  I  began  to  explain 
to  Rebecca  what  had  happened.  Do  you  know,  I 
thought  that  was  the  real  danger.  I  thought  she 
would  be  the  one  to  get  on  to  me  for  interfering. 
Rebecca  was  a  woman  who  looked  more  evil  than 
she  really  was.  She  sat  down  at  my  table,  and 
while  I  told  her  and  the  piano  jangled  away  again, 
she  kept  patting  my  arm  and  saying,  'Yes,  yes,  I 
know.'  What  did  she  know?  Why,  the  simple 
fact  that  Rosa  was  no  longer  a  little  girl  to  be 


ALIENS  187 

petted,  but  a  grown-up  girl  to  be  insulted.  I  learned 
a  similar  thing  had  happened  once  or  twice  in  the 
last  few  months.  You  see,  the  girl  was  neither  in 
one  class  nor  the  other.  A  young  Genoese  will  not 
look  at  a  girl  who  lives  in  those  houses  along  the 
Front.  He  thinks  they  are  all  rotten  bad.  As  for 
the  foreigners  she  met  in  the  'Isle  o'  Man,'  I  needn't 
tell  you  what  an  average  EngUshman  thinks  of 
foreign  women. 

"I  told  the  Chief  about  it  next  day,  and  he  looked 
up  sharp  from  his  plate  when  I  mentioned  Croasan. 
He  said  hard  things  of  Croasan.  *  Think  of  that?' 
says  he.  'An  old  chap  wi'  married  daughters!' 
'Huh!'  says  the  Second.  'They're  aye  the  wurrs't. 
But  I'm  glad  ye  punched  him,  mister,'  he  says. 
'Many  a  time  I'd  ha'  done  the  same,  only  we  were 
on  articles.    Rosa,  too!' 

"'Ay,'  says  the  Chief,  'but  Rosa'll  have  to  put 
up  with  men  clawin'  her  now.' 

"It  was  my  intention,  to  avoid  trouble  and  talk, 
to  keep  away  from  the  'Isle  o'  Man'  for  the  future, 
but  it  turned  out  otherwise.  I'd  got  leave  from  the 
Chief  on  Thursday  afternoon  to  go  up  to  the  Cathe- 
dral of  San  Lorenzo  to  see  the  Holy  Grail.  They 
keep  it  in  the  Treasury  there  and  show  it  on  Thurs- 
days for  a  franc.  Most  Englishmen  laugh  at  these 
tales  of  the  Church,  and  even  Catholics  I  have  met 
tell  me  they  don't  believe  in  miracles.  I  don't  know 
why;  I'm  interested  in  them.  Sometimes  I  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  state  of  mind  in  which  they  are 
reasonable  and  necessary  things.  The  more  we 
learn   the   less   we  know.     They  say   that  saints, 


188  ALIENS 

because  they  led  good  lives  and  kept  away  from 
evil,  were  able  to  perform  miracles.  Why  should 
a  statement  like  that  annoy  anybody?  Good  is  a 
power  and  evil  is  a  power.  Why  deny  it?  I  read 
a  book  the  other  day  in  which  the  author,  a  German 
with  a  name  like  a  lady's  sneeze,  denies  the  exist- 
ence of  good  and  evil.  Humph!  It's  a  long  time 
since  I  read  Hegel,  but  I  don't  think  he  was  ever 
as  mad  as  that! 

"I  was  coming  through  the  church  after  quitting 
the  sacristan,  when  I  caught  sight  of  a  girl  kneeling 
on  the  steps  of  the  Chapel  of  St.  John.  I  suppose 
you  know  that  the  Precursor  is  buried  in  this 
church?  They  show  you  a  silver  box  with  a  chain 
round  it,  the  chain  that  bound  him  in  prison.  There 
were  other  women  in  the  church,  but  this  girl  was 
not  in  the  chapel,  only  kneeling  on  the  step  out- 
side. Women,  you  see,  are  not  allowed  to  enter  that 
chapel;  on  account  of  Salome,  I  suppose.  I  saw 
this  girl  kneeling  on  the  step  and  crossed  over  to 
see  what  she  was  doing.  It  was  Rosa,  saying  her 
prayers.  There  is  a  difference  between  a  Catholic 
and  a  Protestant  praying.  You  may  have  noticed 
it.  A  Protestant  shuts  his  eyes  and  thinks  hard 
about  the  money  he's  making  or  the  automobile 
he's  going  to  buy.  A  Catholic  plays  about  with  his 
beads  and  chatters  all  the  time  while  he's  thinking 
of  religion.  Protestants  are  scandalized  when  they 
see  how  Catholics  make  a  sort  of  rough-house  play- 
ground of  their  churches — children  playing  on  the 
floor  during  service  even.  They  can't  understand 
how  Cathohcs  manage  to  reverence  a  thing  and  yet 


ALIENS  189 

not  hate  it.  Englishmen  always  draw  wrong  con- 
clusions about  an  Italian's  relations  with  God. 
You  see,  most  Englishmen  feel  about  God  as  they 
used  to  feel  about  Queen  Victoria.  They  respected 
her  and  felt  she  was  necessary,  but  all  the  same 
they  felt  exasperated  with  her  for  being  so  par- 
ticular at  times!    Humph! 

"Well,  Rosa  looked  up  and  recognized  me, 
smiled  and  went  on  praying  as  fast  as  she  could. 
I  bowed.  Of  course  I  had  my  hat  in  my  hand,  so  I 
had  to  bow.  I  saw  her  go  red,  and  I  thought  I'd 
done  something  she  disapproved  of.  I  stood  there 
hardly  knowing  what  to  do,  and  she  bent  her  head 
to  finish  her  prayer.  She  told  me  afterwards  that  it 
was  the  first  time  anyone  had  ever  bowed  to  her. 
She  turned  red  because  she  thought  I  was  mocking 
her,  and  then,  I  suppose,  with  pleasure.  That  was 
the  beginning  of  our  courtship. 

"Of  course,  in  one  sense,  it  was  an  unusual  court- 
ship. It  happened  to  come  about  by  a  number  of 
accidents.  If  I  hadn't  hit  old  Croasan  she  would 
never  have  looked  at  me,  for  I'm  not  a  very  con- 
spicuous figure  at  any  time.  If  I  hadn't  met  her 
in  the  church  just  as  she  was  praying  for  my  soul, 
because  I'd  acted  kindly  towards  her,  I  might 
never  have  seen  her  again.  And  so  on,  if — if —if. 
It  was  in  that  sense  unusual.  But  in  another  sense 
I  don't  suppose  there  was  ever  a  more  common- 
place affair  than  this  of  Rosa  and  me.  If  we'd 
lived  in  Brixton  we  couldn't  have  been  more  re- 
spectable ! 

"For  some  mysterious  reason  or  other  Rebecca 


190  ALIENS 

took  a  fancy  to  me.  Mind,  I  was  only  third  en- 
gineer of  the  oldest  tramp  in  Genoa.  If  I'd  been 
Chief,  then  I  could  have  understood  her  making  a 
fuss  of  me.  But  I  was  Third.  I  have  an  idea  Re- 
becca had  seen  better  days.  Now  and  again  she 
dropped  hints  that  pointed  that  way.  She  had  a 
manner  too,  when  she  was  sober,  and  had  been 
cleaned  up.  The  men  who  drank  in  her  bar  httle 
knew  how  she  was  transformed  when  she  dressed 
herself  to  go  up  town.  They  httle  knew,  either, 
how  very  like  the  house  upstairs  was  to  houses  in 
Brixton  or  Hartlepool  or  the  Paisley  Road.  Middle- 
class  people  are  the  same  all  the  world  over.  I 
expect  they  have  fringes  on  their  curtains  even  in 
Honolulu !    Rebecca  had,  anyhow. 

"The  news  made  a  bit  of  stir  among  the  ships 
for  a  while  as  might  be  expected,  and  gradually 
spread  right  through  the  Merchant  Service.  *Rosa 
of  Rebecca's  was  engaged  to  the  Third  of  the  Cory- 
donl'  By  George,  that  was  a  morsel  of  gossip. 
Miss  Bevan  had  heard  about  it  in  Barry;  Polly  Loo 
in  Singapore  heard  it,  the  girls  in  the  Little  Wooden 
Hut  at  Las  Palmas  heard  it.  It  went  round  the 
world,  that  Rosa  of  Rebecca's  was  engaged. 

"For  three  years  we  traded  as  regularly  as  a 
mail  boat  to  Genoa  with  coal,  then  across  to  Car- 
tagena in  Spain  for  iron  ore  and  back  to  the  Tyne. 
I  was  Second,  of  course,  and  I  passed  for  Chief 
when  my  time  was  all  in,  just  taking  a  few  days  off 
to  go  to  Shields  for  the  examination.  I  might  have 
got  another  ship,  but  I  was  pretty  comfortable  by 
now.     I  knew  my  Chief  and  my  engines,  and  I 


ALIENS  191 

naturally  wanted  to  keep  on  the  Genoa  trade  as 
long  as  I  could.  In  those  days  they  took  weeks  to 
discharge,  and  so  I  used  to  have  quite  a  spell  with 
Rosa.  She  was  never  bothered  with  'men  clawin' 
her,'  as  the  Chief  expressed  it.  I  used  to  take  her 
up  to  the  Giardino  D 'Italia  to  listen  to  the  band 
and  to  see  the  movies,  or  we'd  take  the  Funicular 
up  to  Castellaccio  and  have  a  bit  of  dinner  at  a 
little  trattoria  near  the  Righi,  where  you  can  look 
out  across  the  sea.  I  learned  to  speak  the  language 
pretty  well,  and  it  was  my  intention  at  first  to 
settle  in  Italy.  But  Rosa  would  not  hear  of  it. 
She  wanted  to  get  away  from  the  associations  of 
her  childhood. 

"Perhaps  it  was  because  of  this  desire  of  hers 
th-^t  we  so  often  went  up  and  sat  on  the  bastions 
of  Castellaccio  and  looked  out  across  the  sea.  And 
it  was  here,  one  evening,  that  I  spoke  of  a  matter 
which  had  been  in  my  mind  for  some  httle  time. 
We'd  had  Christmas  together  that  year,  and  it  was 
a  clear,  cold,  windless  afternoon  in  January  that  we 
rode  up  out  of  the  city  noise,  and  looked  over  the 
roofs  and  domes  and  hanging  gardens,  and  saw  the 
orange  trees  heavy  with  snow,  and  the  ripe  fruit 
glowing  like  globes  of  fire  on  the  laden  branches. 
You  must  not  think  that  the  romantic  surround- 
ings had  inflamed  my  imagination,  and  that  I  was 
apprehensive  of  a  lurid  story.  Not  at  all.  I  had 
turned  the  matter  over,  in  my  prosaic  way,  for 
several  voyages,  and  I  put  the  question  to  Rosa 
in  a  direct  and  simple  form.  I  asked  her  who  she 
was.    It  is  all  very  well,  in  novels,  for  shy  damsels 


192  ALIENS 

to  run  into  the  arms  of  some  casual  Prince  Charm- 
ing, or  for  heroic  clean-cut  young  college-men  with 
over-developed  jaw-bones  to  marry  strange  girls  for, 
I  suppose,  heroic  reasons.  All  very  well  in  novels. 
But  you  try  that  sort  of  thing  in  real  life,  and  see 
where  you  land.  I  don't  mean  externals — parents, 
social  sets  or  legal  tarradiddles.  Such  things  are 
very  slight  obstacles.  I  mean  the  tremendous  ob- 
stacles inside  you:  the  mass  of  your  inherited 
shrinkings  and  shynesses  and  delicacy;  a  whole 
quick-set  hedge  of  brambles  and  nettles  and  thistles, 
behind  which  your  naked  soul  is  hiding  in  a  sort  of 
terror;  and  you  can't  do  it!  I  was  in  that  position, 
because,  so  far,  Rosa  had  made  no  reference  to  her 
birth  except  to  say  that,  although  Rebecca  wasn't 
her  mother,  she  was  as  good  as  one. 

"And  Rebecca,  when  I  had  mentioned  the  mat- 
ter to  her  one  day,  had  said,  with  her  chin  resting 
on  her  knuckles,  'Ask  Rosa.'    I  said, 

"'Ask  her  what.?' 

'"Ask  her  if  she  wants  you  to  know  all  about  it.' 

"'Why,'  I  said,  'is  there  so  much  to  know.?^' 

"'Little  enough,'  said  she,  'but  Rosa  made  Oscar 
and  me  promise  to  say  nothing  unless  she  gave  us 
the  word.* 

"'So  Oscar  knows  it  as  well,'  I  said.  Oscar  was 
the  steward  Rebecca  had  married  a  few  years  be- 
fore, a  Dutchman,  who  was  nearly  always  at  sea 
when  I  was  in  Genoa,  so  I  saw  very  little  of  him. 

'"Of  course,  Oscar  knows,'  said  Rebecca.  'He 
knows  a  good  deal  of  it  first  hand.' 

"'All  right,  I'll  speak  to  Rosa,'  I  said. 


ALIENS  193 

"And  I  did,  as  I  was  telling  you.  I  asked  her 
who  she  was. 

"'You  have  a  good  right  to  know,'  she  said, 
looking  up  to  where  a  sentry's  head  and  bayonet 
were  sliding  to  and  fro  above  the  wall.  'I  have 
meant  to  tell  you,  but  I  know  very  little.    So  little!' 

"I  said  I  left  the  matter  in  her  hands  entirely. 

"The  sentry  stopped  above  us,  presented  arms, 
grounded,  looked  round,  and  then  took  a  peep  at 
us  over  the  corner.  A  pair  of  lovers!  His  yellow, 
livid  face  cracked  a  smile  as  I  caught  his  eye.  For 
another  second  or  so  we  grinned  at  each  other,  and 
then  he  put  on  his  professional  mask  again,  as 
though  he  had  drawn  down  a  vizor,  shouldered  his 
rifle  and  thumped  along  his  little  gangway.  Rosa 
waited  until  he  had  passed  the  further  turret  and 
then  turned  to  me. 

"'It  isn't  easy  to  say  it,  though,  after  all,'  she 
said.  'I  was  a  little  baby  at  Aunt  Rebecca's,  then 
a  little  girl  and  now  a  big  girl.  Before  that,  there 
was  my  mother  who  was  dead.  My  father,  dead 
too,  a  soldier  like  him' — she  nodded  towards  the 
head  and  bayonet  sliding  backwards  and  forwards — 
'in  Abyssinia,  you  know.' 

"'Ah!'  I  said.  'Yes.  But  why  don't  you  know 
your '    Rosa  interrupted  me. 

"'That  is  just  it,'  she  said.  'Now  you  come  to  it. 
I  can't  tell  you  all  about  it.  I  don't  know  the  words. 
There  are  people  in  Genova  who  know.  Uncle  Oscar 
knows.    He  can  tell  you   ...   if  you  ask  him.' 

"Now  it  was  perfectly  obvious  to  me  that  my 
girl  was  not  trying  to  hide  some  shameful  secret 


194  ALIENS 

from  me,  but  rather  that,  her  speech  in  our  tongue 
running  for  the  most  part  on  the  material  details 
of  life,  she  simply  hadn't  the  words,  as  she  put  it, 
to  relate  a  story  in  a  higher  key.  I  own  I  was  inter- 
ested, because  it  was  a  point  which  had  struck  me 
very  much  in  the  study  of  languages.  You  must 
have  noticed  how  you  can  go  along  smoothly 
enough,  learning  vocabularies,  verbs,  adjectives, 
idioms,  and  so  on,  reading  newspapers  and  books, 
filling  in  what  you  don't  know  with  a  guess  or  a 
skip,  asking  for  thmgs  at  the  table,  giving  orders  to 
a  tailor  or  a  barber;  and  when  anybody  asks  you  if 
you  know  that  language,  you  say  yes,  and  I  sup- 
pose you  are  justified  in  a  way.  But  just  try  to 
express  the  fundamental  and  secret  things  of  your 
life,  something  that  has  happened,  not  in  a  book, 
but  in  your  own  soul,  and  see  how  ragged  and 
beggarly  your  vocabulary  is !  The  fact  is,  you  don't 
often  speak  of  these  things  in  any  language,  let 
alone  a  foreign  one.  Rosa  was  never  talkative. 
She  could  be  silent  without  being  sullen.  Ours, 
you  may  say,  was  for  the  most  part  a  silent  court- 
ship. 

"Well,  I  did  what  she  suggested.  By  good  chance 
Oscar  Hank's  ship,  the  Prin7  Karl,  was  due  in  from 
New  York  at  the  time,  and  when  I  saw  her  two 
big  yellow  funnels  and  top-heavy  passenger  decks 
blocking  the  view  of  the  Principe,  I  went  over.  Mr. 
Hank,  Signore  Hank,  was  a  man  who  had  seen  the 
best  of  his  life  before  he  married  Rebecca.  He  was  a 
tall,  spare-ribbed  man  with  high  shoulders  and  thin 
hair  brushed  across  an  ivory  patch  of  bald  scalp. 


ALIENS  195 

His  face  was  strong  enough,  but  worn.  He  had 
prominent  eyes  and  sharp  cheek-bones  accentuated 
by  the  hollows  in  his  cheeks,  and  a  sharp,  thin  nose 
jutted  out  over  one  of  those  heavy  grey  moustaches 
that  get  into  the  soup  and  make  the  owner  look  like 
a  hungry  walrus.  He  might  have  been  rich,  as  they 
said  he  was,  and  he  might  have  been  clever  in  days 
gone  by;  but  as  I  knew  him  he  was  a  faded,  soiled 
ghost  of  a  man,  a  man  preoccupied  with  the  dirty 
pickings  of  life,  just  as  his  wife,  strong  character 
as  I  knew  her  to  be,  was  only  a  drunken  parody  of 
her  real  self,  a  shrewd,  calculating,  good-hearted,  bad- 
principled  old  failure. 

"Mr.  Hank  sat  in  his  cabin,  talking  to  a  young 
fellow  in  American  clothes  and  French  boots,  who 
was,  I  could  see,  one  of  those  shady  characters  who 
tout  for  ship-chandlers,  whose  business  makes  them 
toadies,  sycophants  and  pandars.  There  is  some- 
thing detestable  about  the  ship-chandlering  trade, 
somehow.  You  see  them  lick-spittling  the  old  man, 
taking  him  ashore  if  he  is  a  stranger,  bringing  boxes 
of  candy  for  his  wife  if  he  has  her  on  board,  sending 
a  boat  every  day,  for  his  convenience,  and  so  on, 
and  then,  when  the  ship's  stores  are  rushed  on  board 
at  the  last  moment,  and  you  put  to  sea,  the  stuff 
turns  out  to  be  bad  or  short.  The  flour  is  damp 
and  won't  rise,  the  potatoes  are  a  scratch  lot,  the 
meat  poor  and  the  fruit  rotten.  And  the  Old  Man 
says  nothing,  the  steward  says  nothing,  because 
they've  been  squared,  and  after  all  it's  only  the 
crew  who  really  suffer,  because  the  captain  has  his 
own  private  stock,  which  Mister  steward  shares,  you 


196  ALIENS 

may  be  sure.  It  is  a  dirty  business,  and  the  sight  of 
those  sleek,  cunning,  pimple-faced  young  men,  in  their 
fancy  vests  and  dirty  cuffs,  always  sickens  me,  be- 
cause I  know  the  knavery  in  their  hearts. 

"'Come  in,  come  in,'  said  jVIt.  Hank,  as  I  turned 
away  from  his  door. 

"*No/  I  said.  'I'll  wait  till  you  are  through,  Mr. 
Hank.' 

'"Nonsense,  come  in,'  said  he.  'This  is  only  Mr. 
Sachs,  representing  Babbolini's.  He  won't  eat  you,' 
he  said. 

"I  came  back  at  this,  and  stood  at  the  door  to 
let  a  crowd  of  bedroom  stewards  with  sheets  go  by. 
'It  would  take  a  better  man  than  him  to  eat  me, 
^Ir.  Hank.' 

"Mr.  Sachs  smiled  politely  and  made  room  for  me 
on  the  settee,  evidently  having  no  cannibal  inten- 
tions at  the  time,  or  at  any  rate  disguising  them. 
Offered  me  a  cigarette,  which  I  never  smoke.  Said 
it  was  a  fine  day. 

"'It  was  a  private  matter  I  wanted  to  speak 
about,'  I  said  to  Hank,  who  looked  at  me  \\dth  an 
expression  of  eternal  anxiety  in  his  prominent  eyes. 

"'I  know,'  he  said.  'I  know.  I  was  ashore  this 
morning.' 

"'We  won't  discuss  it  here,  Mr.  Hank,'  I  said," 
hastily.  'If  you  don't  mind,  I'll  see  you  ashore, 
since  you're  busy.' 

"Mr.  Hank,  Signore  Hank,  was  a  man  I  would 
never  be  very  intimate  with,  however  well  I  knew 
him.  I'm  not  saying  he  was  so  bad,  or  that  I  was  so 
virtuous  myself,  at  all.    It  was  simply,  I  suppose,  a 


ALIENS  197 

matter  of  temj>erameiit.  To  me  it  always  seemed 
as  though  he  had  so  many  mj'sterious  things  in  his 
mind  that  he  was  borne  down  bj'^  them;  that  the 
outward  and  visible  world,  in  which  I  saw  him  and 
spoke  to  him,  was  only  a  thin  mask  behind  which  his 
real  existence  was  concealed.  I  may  have  been 
wrong.  It  doesn't  matter,  for  Signore  Hank  is  dead 
now,  his  long  life  of  ingenious  peculation  is  over, 
and  the  good  and  the  iU  of  it,  we'll  hope,  have  bal- 
anced, anj-way.  But  I  couldn't  possibly  discuss 
Rosa  with  him,  let  alone  have  that  smooth,  dissi- 
pated little  bounder  of  a  Sachs  sit  by  and  he^r  it  all. 
I  had  to  call  a  halt.  I  was  making  up  my  mind  to 
leave  the  mud  alone  and  not  stir  it  up  at  all,  when 
IVir.  Hank,  sitting  asprawl  in  his  swivel  chair  at  his 
roll-top  desk,  his  big  chin  and  nose  and  moustache 
buried  in  his  hand,  and  staring  at  me  with  his  hard- 
boiled  eyes,  remarked  abruptly: 

"'Do  you  know  the  Hotel  Robinson?* 
" ' Certainlj','  I  said.  'WTiat  about  it?* 
"'\Miat  you  want  to  do  is  to  go  to  the  Hotel 
Robinson  and  ask  for  Doctor  West.  He's  the  man. 
He'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  You  know  Doctor  West? 
Tall,  big  black  beard,  pale  face.  Flag's  letter  P. 
You  know  him?' 

"'I've  seen  him  some  time  or  other,  I  dare  say,' 
I  said.  'Hotel  Robinson,  you  say.  All  right  and 
tliank  you.' 

"'Just  a  minute,'  sang  out  httle  Sachs  as  I  made 
to  go.  'I'll  go  with  you.  I  know  Doctor  West.  I'll 
introduce  you.*  And  he  went  on  discussing  a  paper 
he  had,  with  IVIr.  Hank. 


198  ALIENS 

"I  felt  a  little  indignant  and  walked  off,  walked 
in  the  wrong  direction,  of  course,  and  lost  myself  in 
interminable  alleyways  of  passenger-cabins,  hustled 
by  stewards  and  stewardesses  who  were  polishing 
brass-work,  rolling  up  carpets,  washing  floors  and  so 
on.  All  about  was  that  curious  odour  that  seems 
inseparable  from  the  corridors  of  steamers,  hospitals, 
workhouses  and  the  like — an  odour  which  is  a  com- 
pound of  cleanliness,  antiseptic  and  cold  enamelled 
iron.  Such  surroundings  depressed  me.  I  felt, 
more  acutely  than  ever  before,  the  distance  between 
Rosa's  environment  and  what  I  would  have  had  it. 
I  felt  dissatisfied  with  Signore  Hank,  and  wdth  my- 
self too,  if  the  truth  be  told.  I  had  not  taken  hold 
of  the  situation.  I  had  allowed  him  to  impose  on 
me.  I  suppose  you  have  had  the  experience,  when 
someone  for  whom  you  have  no  esteem,  imposes  his 
pinchbeck  personality  upon  you.  Save  for  the  story 
which  this  Doctor  West  of  the  Hotel  Robinson 
might  spin,  I  would  have  gone  back  to  the  Corydon 
and  forgotten  it.  I  wandered  about  a  good  bit, 
when  a  bell-hop  showed  me  an  unexpected  way  out, 
and  there  was  IVIister  Sachs  at  the  gangway,  looking 
about  for  me. 

'"WTiy,  where  'ave  you  been?'  he  asked.  *I 
thought  you'd  gone.' 

'"Well,  you  needn't  bother  to  wait  if  you're  in  a 
hurry,'  I  answered,  testily,  going  down  the  shrouded 
gangway. 

'"Oh,  that's  not  what  I  meant,'  he  said,  coming 
after  me  smartly,  buttoning  up  his  coat  and  taking 
out  his  gloves.    'Fact  is,  JNlister,'  he  went  on,  'I'd 


ALIENS  199 

take  It  as  a  favour — this  is  the  quickest  way  up  to 
Hotel  Robinson — if  you'd  give  me  an  introduction 
to  your  captain.' 

"I  looked  at  him  astounded,  all  at  sea. 

"'Representing  Babbolini's,'  he  added,  feeling  in 
his  pocket  for  a  card.  'Course,  any  business  done's 
between  ourselves.  We  have  a  big  connection  and 
can  always  give  satisfaction.' 

"So  you  see  how  the  mere  contact  of  these  people 
contaminates.  He  was  trying  to  make  me  his  tout 
to  the  Corydon,  me,  the  once  future  Prime  Minister 
of  England,  the  child  of  many  prayers!  You  may 
say,  how  were  the  mighty  fallen!  Indeed,  I  was 
ashamed.    I  said  nothing. 

"'Of  course,'  said  little  Sachs,  his  pimpled,  dough- 
coloured  face  close  to  mine.  'Of  course,  if  you  don't 
care  to  speak  to  the  Captain,  the  Chief  Steward 

"There  was  a  trolley  car  station  just  outside  the 
gates  of  the  Dogana,  and  I  halted  there  and  said  to 
him: 

"'Look  here,  don't  you  worry  to  come  any  farther 
with  me.  You've  got  business  to  attend  to,  I  dare 
say.  Run  right  along  and  attend  to  it.  Good 
morning.' 

"I  was  none  the  better  for  this  encounter  when 
I  finally  reached  the  Hotel  Robinson  and  stood  in 
an  entrance-hall  that  was  high  and  dark  and  as  cold 
as  an  ice  box.  I  felt  humiliated  as  well  as  depressed. 
They  say  people  take  a  man  at  his  own  valuation. 
People  don't.  They  average  their  own  experience, 
and  the  answer  is  never  very  high. 


200  ALIENS 

"The  Hotel  Robinson  was  one  of  those  rather 
shabby,  half-hotel,  half-pension  affairs  which  seem 
to  hang  on  year  after  year  with  no  visible  means  of 
support.  I  say  *seem.'  As  a  matter  of  fact  it  was  a 
steady,  prosperous  establishment  with  a  steady, 
prosperous  connection.  It  never  advertised,  never 
cleaned  up,  nor  modernized,  nor  did  anything,  as 
far  as  I  could  ever  see,  except  exist  and  prosper.  I 
don't  know  who  owned  it — Robinson  perhaps — 
whether  it  was  a  company,  or  anything  else  about  it. 
I  had  stayed  in  it  once  or  twice,  and  a  four-poster 
bed  in  a  sort  of  giant  crypt,  with  plenty  of  comfort 
so  long  as  you  didn't  step  on  the  flags  in  your  bare 
feet,  a  quiet,  well-cooked  breakfast,  and  moderate 
charges  were  my  chief  memories  of  the  establish- 
ment. You  would  never  find  it  if  you  went  to 
Genoa.  You  and  other  tourists  would  be  in  the 
Bristol  or  the  Savoy  or  the  Miramare  up  on  the 
heights  above  the  railroad  terminal.  You  would 
never  find  the  Hotel  Robinsons  of  Europe.  They 
are  like  a  mirage  to  the  tourists,  those  quiet,  clean, 
cheap  hotels.  You  hear  of  them  and  perhaps  catch 
a  glimpse  of  them  in  the  distance,  and  you  press  on, 
and  find  they  have  vanished.  They  have  become  dear, 
and  noisy,  and  flashy,  and  are  waiting  for  you  at  the 
station  with  a  brand-new  motor  omnibus!    Humph! 

"A  woman  came  out  of  a  little  glazed  ofl5ce,  a 
woman  dressed  in  black  plush,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
with  list  slippers  on  her  feet  and  a  mangy  old  fur 
wrap  over  her  arms  and  across  the  small  of  her 
back.  Perhaps  it  was  the  unusual  state  of  mind 
I  was  in;  but  to  me  she  had  the  appearance  of  a 


ALIENS  201 

discontented  Sibyl,  a  Sibyl  who  had  been  waiting 
for  years  for  somebody  to  make  an  offer  for  her 
books.  Nobody,  apparently,  had  ever  come,  and 
she  had  to  put  up  with  me,  who  only  wanted  Doctor 
West.  I  was  just  asking  about  him  when  we  tum- 
bled back  into  the  Twentieth  Century.  The  tele- 
phone bell  rang  in  the  oflSce. 

"The  Hotel  Robinson  had  once  been  a  palace,  a 
marble  palace  with  marble  walls  a  couple  of  feet 
thick  and  staircases  like  a  stonecutter's  nightmare. 
The  place  was  feudal.  A  coat-of-arms  and  a  hat,  in 
marble,  still  balanced  themselves  over  the  portico — 
Robinson's  perhaps.  I  suppose  the  little  glazed 
office  was  the  sentry-box  in  the  old  days,  where 
mendicants  got  their  doles  and  tall  freelances  from 
Germany  applied  for  a  situation.  May  be.  I 
looked  through  the  glass  partition  and  saw  the 
woman  bending  forward,  the  telephone  to  her  ear, 
her  hand  held  out  over  a  little  charcoal  brazier,  her 
lips  moving  inaudibly,  her  eyes  nearly  closed,  as 
though  she  were  weaving  a  spell. 

"I  was  beginning  to  feel  cold  when  she  rang  off 
and  came  out  again.  'Doctor  West?  I've  just 
spoken  to  him,'  she  said.  'He  is  at  his  office  in  the 
harbour.    He  returns  at  eleven.' 

" 'I  want  to  see  him  on  a  private  matter,'  I  said. 

"'To  consult  him.^*'  she  queried. 

'"Not  professionally,  you  understand,  signora,  but 
on  a  personal  affair.' 

"'Then  come  in  the  evening.  He  dines  at  seven. 
He  is  always  in  until  ten.  Will  you  leave  your 
name.'^ ' 


202  ALIENS 

"I  left  my  card  and  wrote  on  the  back  of  it  that  I 
wished  to  see  him  about  the  relatives  of  Signorina 
Rosa  Cairola.  The  woman  read  it,  looked  at  me, 
shivered,  murmured  'All  right/  and  went  back  to 
her  brazier  in  the  office. 

"It  was  more  cheerful  in  that  marble  tunnel  in  the 
evening.  There  were  lights  and  people  about.  Not 
many,  but  enough  to  make  the  place  less  like  a 
tomb.  Perhaps  the  gloom  of  the  morning  was  in 
myself.  The  Sibyl  had  put  a  flower  in  her  hair  by 
way  of  evening  dress  and  was  ordering  servants 
about.  I  have  often  wondered  who  exactly  she 
was.  It  is  the  fate  of  us  who  wander  over  the  earth 
to  leave  so  many  by-ways  unexplored.  We  can  only 
gHmpse  and  conjecture  and,  generally,  forget.  Life 
for  us  is  like  a  walk  along  the  broad,  modern  streets 
of  an  Italian  city.  Every  little  while  we  pass  nar- 
row alleys,  mere  slots  in  the  mass  of  marble  archi- 
tecture, which  dive  down  into  darkness  and  mys- 
tery. Every  Httle  while  we  pass  low-lying  ramps 
and  odd  httle  causeways,  where  lighted  windows 
give  one  sudden  vivid  pictures  of  heads  and  faces 
and  arms,  sudden  snatches  of  gesture  and  conversa- 
tion flung  out  at  us  as  we  pass.  We  want — I  want — 
to  investigate  them  all,  to  see  what's  round  the 
corner,  as  they  say.  And  we  can't.  We've  got  to 
go  on  to  our  destinations,  and  try  and  find  our  fun 
when  we  get  there.  But  it  wasn't  just  the  vague, 
generalized  appetite  for  odd  characters  which  made 
me  contemplate  that  fusty  manageress  with  interest. 
It  was  the  sudden  fleeting  reflection  that,  but  for 
me,  but  for  a  chance  accident,  there  was  Rosa  in 


ALIENS  203 

years  to  come,  faded,  obscure,  efficient,  querulous 
and  a  failure.  And  in  Hank  I  saw  myself  in  years 
to  come,  only  not  so  successful,  not  so  rich,  not 
quite  so  shady,  I  hope.  I  watched  her  moving 
about  in  her  funereal  draperies,  the  flower  flopping 
as  she  shuffled  and  gesticulated.  Presently  she  saw 
me  and  beckoned,  and  then  I  was  shown  up  those 
ponderous  stone  stairs,  the  marble  balustrade  cov- 
ered with  red-baize  for  fear  people  might  be  frozen 
to  it  on  the  way,  no  doubt.  A  pair  of  vast  double 
doors  bore  a  microscopic  inscription  of  the  Doctor's 
name,  together  with  an  almost  invisible  pimple  that 
was  the  bell,  and  before  those  sombre  and  enigmatic 
portals  I  was  left  to  my  fate.  For  once  in  a  way,  I 
was  going  to  see  what  was  round  the  corner. 

"One  leaf  of  the  door  opened  and  remained  so  for 
a  second  before  a  head  appeared,  a  head  of  grey, 
upstanding  hair  and  a  dark,  bushy  beard.  You  don't 
often  meet  with  doors  that  open  in  that  fashion  at 
home.  You  know  the  English  fashion — six  inches 
and  a  face  peering  at  you  suspiciously,  or  a  wide 
fling  open  and  the  servant  standing  right  up  to  you 
and  blocking  the  way  with  a  paralyzing  stare.  On 
the  continent  there  is  the  porter  below  and  the  door 
opens  to  let  you  in,  not  just  to  see  what  you  want. 
So  in  I  walked,  the  door  closed  and  I  found  myself 
in  the  ante-room  of  Doctor  West's  apartment,  faced 
by  Doctor  West  himself,  and  watched  by  a  mummy- 
case  standing  close  to  the  wall,  a  mummy-case 
painted  with  a  strange,  anxious  face.  Its  gold  eyes 
had  luminous  whites  and  strong  black  brows.  That 
bizarre  curiosity  was  the  key  of  the  Doctor's  fur- 


204  ALIENS 

nishing  scheme,  and  it  had  for  me  another  sig- 
nificance. I  knew  then  that  I  had  heard  of  him 
with  some  certainty.  I  connected  him  at  last  with 
various  stories  I  had  vaguely  picked  up,  snatches  of 
conversation  on  the  bridge-deck  or  in  the  mess- 
room.  I  recalled  the  Chief  telling  me  once  of  some 
doctor  who  had  come,  years  ago,  to  stay  at  some 
hotel  and  who  had  never  left  it  since  except  to 
spend  a  month  every  year  in  Egj'pt.  Great  student 
of  mummies,  the  Chief  said.  Yes,  I  remembered  it 
all.  Perhaps,  if  I  had  not  had  Rosa,  I  might  have 
fastened  more  securely  to  the  story  in  the  first  place. 
Now  Rosa  had  brought  me  to  him.  I  told  him  who 
I  was.  He  nodded  and  showed  me  into  his  front 
room. 

"It  is  diflScult  to  convey  the  sense  of  overwhelm- 
ing vastness  which  oppresses  men  in  such  chambers. 
You  might  not  feel  it  so.  My  quarters  are  hmited, 
as  you  may  imagine.  Even  a  millionaire-passenger 
gets  no  more  than  a  cottager  ashore.  And  Re- 
becca's place  had  small  rooms  full  of  plush  furniture 
and  ship-models  in  bottles  and  catamarans  in  glass- 
cases,  assegais  and  Japanese  junk.  Ugly  and  com- 
fortable. But  this  room  of  Doctor  West's  was 
terrifying  to  me.  I  couldn't  see  the  ceiling  at  all 
save  that,  just  above  where  his  reading  lamp  glowed 
green  on  an  immense  table,  there  floated  some  far- 
ofi"  drapery  and  a  plunging  knee — a  fresco  lost  in  the 
gloom.  The  walls  were  painted,  on  stucco,  into  panels, 
and  each  panel  had  a  bunch  of  flowers  tied  with  inter- 
minable ribbons  in  the  centre.  You  don't  like  that 
sort  of  thijig?    Well,  it  is  indigenous  there,  anyway, 


ALIENS  205 

and  you  can't  put  shiny  dadoes  and  humorous  bor- 
ders on  a  forty-foot  wall,  can  you? 

"And  yet,  you  know,  I  saw  in  a  moment,  before  I 
had  opened  my  mouth,  what  lay  at  the  back  of  all 
this.  I  could  see  that  it  was  only  a  variation  of  the 
traditional  hermit's  cave,  a  modern  hole  in  a  marble 
cliff.  This  tall,  high-shouldered  man  with  his  spade- 
shaped  beard  and  ragged  smoking  jacket,  the  cotton 
wool  oozing  from  the  quilting  and  the  pockets  burst 
at  the  corners,  had  recluse  written  all  over  him.  He 
walked  over  the  half  dozen  rugs  that  lay  between 
the  door  and  his  encampment  behind  the  table  and 
left  me  forlorn,  twiddling  my  hat  and  pulling  at  my 
coat,  somewhere  in  outer  darkness.  He  was  nervous, 
yet  anxious  to  show  he  was  at  ease.  I  had  disturbed 
him.  Once  he  looked  behind  him  at  a  door  with  a 
black  curtain  before  it,  as  though  he  contemplated 
flight  to  his  bed-room.  Suddenly  he  started  off  on  a 
journey  into  the  darloiess  and  returned  with  a  chair, 
a  gilt  thing  with  a  rounded  knob  of  upholstery  for  a 
seat.    And  he  asked  me  gently  to  sit  down. 

"A  recluse!  I  had  that  idea  in  my  mind  all  the 
time  I  was  telling  him  my  story,  as  I  am  telling  it  to 
you,  as  far  as  it  concerned  my  girl,  and  I  watched 
him  with  a  certain  abstract  curiosity,  as  well  as  a 
very  lively  anxiety.  For  I  couldn't  think  how  he 
came  into  it.  In  rapid  succession  I  thought  of  the 
possibilities.  In  a  novel,  no  doubt,  he  would  be  her 
father  or  a  wicked  uncle.  Or  perhaps  he  had,  in  a 
professional  capacity,  we  may  say,  concocted  soroie 
villainy!  But  then  his  flag  wouldn't  be  P  or  any 
other  letter.    Villains  don't  carry  on  the  humdrum 


206  ALIENS 

business  of  attending  ships  in  port  for  a  lump  sum 
down.  Yes,  as  I  told  him  my  story  I  was  wondering 
what  his  was.  And  I  was  conscious  also  that  I  was 
increasing  my  experience.  Here  was  a  recluse.  They 
do  not  grow  on  bushes.  It  stands  to  reason  a  young 
man  will  not  come  across  many.  A  young  man 
grows  so  accustomed  to  reading  about  things  now- 
adays that  he  may  quite  possibly  never  miss  the 
actual  experience.  I  could  not  do  that.  I  have 
always  had  some  sort  of  touchstone  by  which  I 
could  keep  a  hold  on  the  difference  between  reality 
and  mere  imagination.  There  were  many  things, 
common  things  if  you  like,  which  I  had  never  ex- 
perienced, and  I  meant  to  experience  them.  Nothing 
dismayed  me.  I  had  in  me  at  that  time  a  singular 
passion  for  life.  No  doubt  this  showed  in  my  face, 
as  I  have  seen  it  in  others — a  thirsty  look,  with  a 
rather  over-confident  manner.  And  Doctor  West 
seemed  almost  to  draw  back  from  me  as  though  I 
were  dangerous,  explosive.  I  dare  say  I  was  to 
him.  He  had  left  all  that,  had  sunk  into  a  sort  of 
intellectual  torpor,  insulated,  as  one  may  say,  from 
the  great  dynamoes  of  human  life. 

"'But  why,'  he  repeated,  after  looking  at  me 
nervously  for  a  long  time  and  Ustening  to  my  words. 
'Why  do  you  wish  to  marry  her?' 

"'Well,'  I  said,  'I  suppose  it's  because  we  are  in 
love.' 

"'But  do  you  realize  the  risks?'  he  asked  gently, 
moving  his  papers  and  books  about.  'I'm  assuming, 
of  course,  that  you  are  a  gentleman,'  he  went  on. 
'Always  best  to  marry  in  one's  own  class,  don't  you 


ALIENS  207 

think?'  He  studied  my  card  for  a  while  and  looked 
up  suddenly. 

"'But  suppose  I've  considered  all  that,'  I  sug- 
gested. 'Suppose  it  isn't  so  easy  to  know  one's 
class,  as  you  call  it.' 

"'Oh,'  said  he,  getting  up  and  walking  off  into 
the  darkness.  'Oh,  if  one  is  a  gentleman  .  .  . ' 
His  voice  tailed  off. 

"'But,'  I  persisted,  'I'm  not  sure  I  am  a  gentle- 
man.   Really  I'm  not.' 

"'What!'  The  solitary  word  came  to  me  out  of 
the  shadows  with  startling  distinctness.  I  nodded. 
I  sat  there  on  that  spindley,  gim-crack  chair  and 
stared  contemptuously  at  the  paraphernalia  of  learn- 
ing and  refinement  on  the  great  table,  at  the  silver 
cigarette  box,  the  bronze  inkstand,  the  sphinxes  and 
scarabs  and  cenotaphs,  the  bits  of  papyrus  under 
glass,  the  books  and  magnifying  glasses.  Stared  at 
them  and  defied  them.    I  nodded. 

"'It  is  a  fact,'  I  said.  'I  have  been  brought  up  in 
a  genteel  position  and  I  don't  consider  the  whole 
business  to  amount  to  a  heap  of  beans.' 

"I  could  hear  him  walking  to  and  fro,  and  pres- 
ently, as  my  eyes  grew  accustomed,  I  made  him  out, 
a  tall  phantom  moving  in  front  of  other  motionless 
phantoms.  I  became  aware,  too,  of  a  warmth  com- 
ing from  that  quarter  and  saw  him  stoop  and  open 
the  damper  of  a  closed  stove,  a  studio  stove,  I  think 
it  was. 

'"Then  what  can  it  matter  to  you  what  her 
parents  were?'  he  demanded,  straightening  up  and 
coming  into  the  light. 


208  ALIENS 

*"I  didn't  say  I  wasn't  respectable,'  I  told  him, 
*as  well  as  curious.    Anybody  would  be  that.' 

"He  admitted  that  was  so,  and  came  and  sat 
down. 

"  'The  girl  was  born  at  sea,  on  a  ship,'  he  observed 
slowly. 

"*Well,'  I  said,  'what  of  that?    So  was  I.' 

"*0h,  is  that  so?'  He  looked  at  me  again  in  his 
nervous  way.  Lit  a  cigarette  and  contemplated  the 
smoke. 

'"Born  at  sea,  on  a  ship,'  he  repeated.  'Her 
mother  came  from  somewhere  up  the  Adriatic  coast, 
Loreto,  if  I  remember  rightly.  A  lady's  rnaid.  She 
and  her  mistress  joined  the  mail-boat  at  Port  Said. 
They  had  been  living  at  Cairo.  On  the  voyage  she 
died  in  giving  birth  to  a  child.  There  was  some 
trouble,  which  I  never  fathomed,  about  the  mistress, 
the  Honourable  Mrs.  James.  She  did  not  know  her 
maid  was  married  when  she  engaged  her  at  Venice. 
Letters  were  found  in  her  pockets  from  a  Sergeant 
Cairola.  Just  about  this  time  the  Italian  Army  was 
severely  defeated  in  Abyssinia,  and  as  far  as  could 
be  ascertained  the  sergeant,  who  had  married  the 
girl  at  Ancona  on  the  very  point  of  embarking,  was 
killed.  Mrs.  James  was  not  in  a  condition,  nor  was 
she,  I  imagine,  of  a  temperament  to  interest  herself 
in  the  case.  The  girl,  of  course,  was  buried  at  sea, 
several  days  before  we  arrived  here.  As  the  vessel 
was  British,  the  disposal  of  an  Italian  child  was 
complicated.  Not  born  on  Italian  soil,  she  was  not 
eligible  for  the  state  institutions  for  orphans.  I 
really  forget  the  details.    I  had  to  make  a  declara- 


ALIENS  209 

tion,  of  course,  being  the  surgeon,  but  the  captain 
and  purser  saw  the  authorities.  On  our  return 
voyage  we  learned  that  thej'^  had  found  foster 
parents  for  the  child,  who  received  a  grant  out  of 
the  pension  due  to  the  widow  had  she  lived.  Since 
then,  on  only  one  occasion,  a  very  painful  one  for  me, 
I  may  say,  have  I  had  anything  to  do  with  the  case.' 
■  "So  that  I  was  really  no  forrader  than  before, 
you  see.  Rosa  herself  had  told  me  about  all  of  im- 
portance that  was  known.  She  had  been  a  baby  at 
Rebecca's,  then  a  little  girl  and  then  a  big  girl. 
And  the  story,  though  Rosa  had  no  part  in  it,  the 
story  spread.  I  had  seen  around  the  corner,  and 
there  were  so  many  things  I  wanted  to  know! 
Things  I  had  no  right  to  know,  come  to  that,  if  I 
was  a  gentleman.  No  right  to  ask  anyway.  I  got 
up  to  go. 

"'Thank  you,  doctor,'  I  said.  'I  suppose  I'll  have 
to  be  satisfied  with  what  you've  given  me.  It  won't 
make  any  difference  to  us,  I'm  glad  to  say.  But  I 
should  have  thought  you  would  have  been  inter- 
ested in  the  case,  even  if  Mrs.  James  wasn't.'  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  moved  his  papers  about, 
plainly  anxious  for  me  to  be  gone. 

"  'Remember,  I  did  not  settle  here  until  some  time 
had  elapsed.  I  should  have  forgotten  the  whole 
affair  but  for  the  occasion  I  spoke  of.' 

"  'I  see,'  I  said.  'Well,  good-night  and  thank  you.' 
Good-night,'  he  said  nervously.  '  Excuse  me  if  I 
don't  go  down  with  you.    I  am  rather  busy.' 

'"Literary  work,  I  presume?'  I  said  politely,  and 
he  nodded. 


210  ALIENS 

***Yes,'  he  replied.  *I'm  engaged  on  the  Book  of 
the  Dead.  I  go  to  Egypt  every  year — next  month, 
in  fact — and  I  am  behind  in  my  notes.' 

"I  stood  with  my  hand  on  the  door,  looking  across 
the  great  chamber,  and  saw  him  hastily  picking  up 
the  threads  my  intrusion  had  broken.  All  around 
the  vague  walls  stood  the  painted  mummy-cases  of 
the  dead,  like  sentinels,  watching  him  with  their 
brilliant,  unwinking,  expectant  eyes.  On  a  shelf 
close  to  me  stood  cats  in  dissipated  attitudes,  mere 
yellow  bundles  of  swathings  and  fustiness.  On 
trestles  behind  the  door  was  a  long  packing  case 
containing  a  slender  shape.  There  was  no  casing 
here,  no  painted  visage,  only  a  vague  impression. 
The  sharp  frontal  bones  had  shorn  clean  through 
the  rotted  fabrics  and  I  could  see  the  snarling  teeth. 
The  small  head  seemed  thrown  back,  the  eyes  closed, 
in  enjoyment  of  some  frightful  joke.  I  looked  back 
again  and  saw  him  wTiting,  his  head  in  his  left  hand, 
writing,  no  doubt,  something  in  the  Book  of  the 
Dead. 

"Curious,  wasn't  it.f^  Curious,  I  mean,  the  sort 
of  people  who  had  crossed  one  another's  paths  at 
the  moment  of  my  girl's  coming  so  forlornly  into  the 
world. 5^  I  was  taken  with  the  grimness  of  it.  I  was 
obsessed  with  the  Book  of  the  Dead.  It  seemed  to 
me  shocking  that  a  man,  cultivated,  well-to-do  ap- 
parently, with  good  health  into  the  bargain,  should 
be  absorbed  in  so  crazy  a  hobby.  And  the  English 
woman,  the  honourable  creature  whose  temperament 
unfitted  her  to  take  any  interest  in  an  orphan  whose 
mother  had  died  in  her  service  and  whose  father  had 


ALIENS  211 

perished  on  the  field  of  battle.  Impossible,  say  you. 
It  isn't  at  all  impossible.  Rich  people — I  mean  the 
rich  who  are  forever  rushing  about  the  world  or 
hiding  in  Mediterranean  villas  or  in  yachts  on  the 
Dalmatian  coast — are  very  curious  people.  The  very 
nature  of  their  mode  of  existence  makes  them  mon- 
sters of  selfishness.  They  are  the  logical  outcome  of 
our  predatory  social  system.  They  are  like  the 
insects  which  we  are  told  will  some  day  triumph 
over  other  forms  of  life.  At  least,  I  think  of  them  as 
such  when  I  encounter  them  rushing  thither  and 
yon  over  the  face  of  the  earth,  crawling  up  moun- 
tains and  flying  through  the  air,  their  shiny  wing- 
cases  flashing  in  the  sun  and  the  sound  of  their 
progress  making  a  buzz  in  the  newspapers.  Well! 
as  I  said,  it  was  curious.  Curious  I  should  have 
found  my  girl  in  such  surroundings,  growing  there 
like  a  straight,  healthy  plant,  just  blooming  in  a 
bed  among  all  those  old  decayed  and  discarded  peo- 
ple of  the  world.  Curious,  too,  I  thought,  that  these 
people,  like  old  Croasan,  had  rejected  life.  Though 
they  were,  if  anything,  less  estimable  than  he  was, 
for  he  defied  life,  in  his  silly,  senile,  drunken  way, 
while  they  seemed  simply  scared  of  it. 

"But  we  weren't.  We  had,  you  may  say,  nothing 
in  common,  but  we  were  not  afraid  of  life,  and  that 
is  the  great  thing.  To  me  it  was  wonderful,  the  ex- 
perience of  courage  and  curiosity,  because  I  had 
been  brought  up  to  shrink  from  contact  with  reality, 
to  keep  myself  unspotted  from  the  world.  It  may 
be,  therefore,  that  I  am  only  describing  to  you  per- 
fectly normal  emotions.     It  may  be  that  I  had 


212  ALIENS 

profited  nothing  by  my  long  probation.  It  may  be: 
I  cannot  tell.  I  am  not  a  believer  in  a  vicarious 
existence,  living  by  proxy  and  tallying  each  minute, 
each  crisis,  by  something  in  a  book.  Nobody  could 
love  literature  more  than  I;  but  I  am  sure  at  the 
same  time  that,  while  life  may  chance  to  be  litera- 
ture, literature  is  not  life.  It  can't  be.  There  was 
the  doctor  with  his  Book  of  the  Dead.  Do  I  judge 
him?  Not  I.  It  may  be  he  was  a  great  genius  who 
will  be  immortal  as  we  count  immortality.  To  him 
I  was,  possibly,  a  mere  annoyance,  an  impertinent 
interlude  in  his  entrancing  studies  of  his  mouldy 
mummies,  indecorously  calling  his  attention  to  the 
existence  of  a  modern  effete  civilization.  I  don't 
know.  I  never  took  the  trouble  to  find  out.  He 
never  materialized  again.  He  moved  back  into  the 
shadows;  a  name,  tall,  pale  and  with  a  black  beard, 
passing  in  his  little  launch,  at  the  call  of  the  code- 
flag  P. 

"Well,  there  it  was,  a  vague  and  inconclusive 
episode,  like  so  many  others  in  my  life.  So  many, 
in  fact,  that  as  I  look  back  at  it  all,  if  it  were  not 
just  for  Rosa  and  the  children,  the  sum-total  of  life 
for  me  would  be  futility.  When  I  read  biography, 
and  I  have  read  a  good  deal  of  it,  I  reflect  upon  the 
achievements  of  men,  their  loves  and  hates,  their 
steady  ambitions  hacking  away  at  obstacles  until 
victory  is  in  sight  and  the  guerdon  won,  or  their 
glorious  deaths  in  action  and  the  fullness  of  their 
posthumous  fame,  and  I — ^I  doubt.  There  is  a  tinge 
of  theatricality  about  it  all.  I  doubt.  It  is  not  so 
much  that  I  regret  my  own  failure  to  copy  their 


ALIENS  213 

example,  but  rather  that  the  stories  don't  tally  with 
my  own  experience.  Often,  when  I  tire  of  a  novel, 
I  ask  myself  why?  And  the  answer  is.  This  isn't 
the  way  at  all!  People  aren't  like  that.  Love  isn't 
like  that  either.  While  as  for  hate,  there  is  very 
little  of  it  in  the  world,  I  fancy,  but  rather  ill-temper 
and  selfishness  and  indifference.  These  make  for 
futility,  just  as  our  uncertainty  of  ambition  does. 
We  grope. 

"You  may  imagine  that  I  was  not  justified  in 
saying  in  so  many  words  that  I  was  no  gentleman, 
that  I  was  prejudicing  myself  in  that  man's  eyes, 
wantonly.  I  don't  defend  it  altogether.  I  was 
eager  at  the  time,  full  of  the  radical  philosophy  of 
the  period,  anxious  to  stand  on  my  own  feet.  I  saw 
men  in  the  flat,  so  to  speak.  Men  and  women.  They 
were  decorative  forms  rather  than  souls  like  my- 
self. My  girl  had  been  like  that,  too,  when  I  first 
saw  her,  a  decorative  form,  exquisite,  pathetic,  en- 
trancing. But  the  magic  of  the  business  was  that 
slowly  she  was  emerging  from  among  those  figures 
of  two  dimensions  and  coming  to  sit  beside  me,  a 
companion.  I  had  never  had  one  before.  There 
might  never  have  been  such  a  thing  happen  before 
to  anybody,  it  seemed  so  strange  and  so  astonish- 
ingly fortunate!  For  years  I  didn't  get  used  to  it. 
And  if  I  am,  in  a  way,  accustomed  to  the  idea  now, 
it  is  only  the  occasional  veiling  of  a  vision,  a  breath- 
ing on  the  glass,  as  it  were.  At  sea  it  will  come  upon 
me  like  a  dream  of  misfortune — if  we  had  never  met, 
if— if— if!    Who  can  tell? 

"Mr,  Hank  and  Rebecca  were  sitting  in  the  little 


214  ALIENS 

room  upstairs  one  evening  when  I  came  in  for  Rosa 
and  I  told  them  my  adventures  at  the  Hotel  Robin- 
son. They  were  drinking  whisky,  I  remember,  and 
talking  together  in  a  low  tone,  like  conspirators. 
Rebecca  laughed. 

"*Ah!'  said  she.  *I  scared  him  that  time,  eh, 
Oscar?  * 

"'You!'  he  answered  in  good-humoured  contempt. 
*You  made  a  big  mistake  there,  my  dear.'  ^ 

"'Well,'  she  retorted.  'And  who  was  it  gave  me 
the  tip?  Who  was  it  said  that  English  doctor  was 
worth  trying,  eh?' 

"'I  did,'  said  Oscar,  looking  at  me  and  winking, 
'but  I  didn't  tell  you  to  go  and  make  a  fool  of  your- 
self and  spoil  the  game.' 

'"Easy  to  say  that  after,'  she  grumbled,  and  be- 
came aware  of  me  looking  at  both  of  them  in  great 
perplexity. 

"'Non  capisce,^  she  added  to  her  husband. 

*'  'The  doctor  mentioned  a  painful  incident,'  I  re- 
marked. 

'"The  devil  he  did!'  they  ejaculated,  looking  at 
me  in  astonishment,  and  Rebecca  went  on.  'It  was 
nothing  at  all,  you  know.  I  thought  he  was  a  man. 
There  was  me  sitting  in  the  tramcar  with  Rosa  on 
my  lap,  three  or  four  years  old,  and  he  comes  in  by- 
and-bye  and  sits  down  opposite.  And  Rosetta — 
you  know  how  httle  girls  will  take  a  fancy  to  a  gen- 
tleman— Rosetta  holds  out  her  hands  and  smiles  at 
him  like  a  httle  angel.  He  was  leaning  his  hands  on 
his  stick  and  she  reached  out  and  took  hold  of  it  and 
says  'la-la!'    And  I  says  'see  the  nice  gentleman's 


ALIENS  215 

stick,'  and  she  gurgles  *  la-la!'  again.  Cunning! 
What  a  bird  she  was!  And  you'd  think  any  human- 
made  man  'ud  give  the  duck  a  penny  and  say  how 
pretty  she  was.  Not  he.  He  sat  there  like  a  stone 
until  I  caught  his  eye  and  bowed  to  him.' 

'"Fancy  that!'  said  Mr.  Hank  in  some  contempt. 
'Because  I  told  her  he  was  the  doctor  of  the  ship 
when  Rosa  was  born,  she  thinks  he's  the  father  and 
goes  up  to  the  Hotel  Robinson  and  wants  money. 
Clever  woman!' 

"'Well,'  said  Rebecca,  'you  didn't  have  any  more 
luck  with  your  Mrs.  James.  You  got  a  flea  in  your 
ear  there,  didn't  you?  You  had  a  great  idea  she 
was  Rosa's  mother.' 

"'If  you'd  listened  to  what  I  told  you,  you'd 
never  have  run  away  with  the  idea  there  was  any 
money  in  the  doctor  for  you.  There  was  some  sense 
in  what  I  did,  because  it  would  have  cut  both  ways. 
But  you  would  interfere.  You  look  surprised,  Mis- 
ter,' he  said  to  me,  chuckling. 

"Of  course,  I  was  surprised.  I  sat  there  open- 
mouthed.  It  is  extraordinary  how  a  man  may  be- 
come suddenly  aware  of  unsuspected  heights  and 
depths  in  human  life.  It  may  be  that  I  have  always 
been  less  sophisticated  than  most.  I  am  continually 
overlooking  the  shabbiness  and  rascality  of  the 
world,  I  find,  in  spite  of  the  early  apprenticeship 
which  I  served  among  business  friends.  I  have  often 
envied  men  this  alertness  of  mind,  this  ever-present 
consciousness  of  the  obliquity  of  human  nature. 
And  yet,  I  am  not  certain  it  is  an  enviable  quality. 
I  have  a  suspicion  that  those  who  have  it  envy  us 


216  ALIENS 

who  lack  it.  They  seem  to  have  for  us  a  half- 
contemptuous,  half -respectful  liking.  So  with  Re- 
becca. She  patted  my  arm  and  said  to  her  hus- 
band: 

"'Let  him  alone.  He's  all  right,  is  Rosa's  sweet- 
heart.' 

"At  that  moment  Rosa  came  in  dressed  to  go  out 
with  me.  She  had  a  white  boa,  I  remember,  and  a 
white  felt  hat  with  a  broad  brim.  She  looked  from 
one  to  the  other  and  then  back  at  me.  'What's  the 
matter.' '  she  said. 

"'Nothing;  only  saying  we  ought  to  think  about 
getting  settled  soon,'  I  said,  laughing,  and  we  all 
laughed.  And  then,  as  we  two  passed  into  the 
narrow,  twisted  staii'case  to  go  down  to  the  street, 
I  heard  Rebecca  say  quietly,  'Did  you  hear  what  he 
said,  Oscar .5^    Did  you,  eh.'*' 

"But,  you  know,  I  wanted  to  get  clear  of  it  all. 
I  was  more  than  ever  set  upon  it.  I  understood 
better  than  ever  Rosa's  vague  dislike  of  a  life  spent 
among  the  people  she  had  known.  It  was  nothing 
to  me  that  Rebecca  and  her  husband  were  potential 
blackmailers  or  that  little  Mr.  Sachs,  'representing 
Babbolini's,'  also  represented  a  possible  life-long 
neighbour  if  we  lived  at  Sampierdarena.  It  was 
Rosa  who  felt  the  impossibility  of  it,  and  the  subtle 
antagonisms  of  her  environment.  She  knew,  though 
she  had  no  words  for  it,  that  there  was  a  fuller  life 
for  us  somewhere  else.  She  would  read  an  Italian 
translation  of  some  English  book,  Barnahy  Rudge  or 
The  Old  Curiosity  Shop,  and  when  I  came  back  to 
her  she  would  ask  me  about  my  country.     I  was 


ALIENS  217 

often  astonished  to  find  how  little  I  knew  about  it! 
What  I  did  know  was  out  of  books.    Humph ! 

"And  what  Httle  I  had  known  was  fading  voyage 
by  voyage.  Only  rarely  was  there  time  to  go  from 
the  Tyne  or  the  Wear  or  the  Clyde  to  my  home  in 
London.  Coal  is  shipped  and  ore  discharged  in  the 
North.  But  even  the  North  meant  little  to  me 
beyond  the  staiths  where  the  coal  came  down  from 
the  pits,  and  the  dirty,  rain-swept  back  streets 
where  the  shipping-oflSces  were.  Once  or  twice  I 
tried  to  get  quit  of  the  ship  and  went  inland  by  rail. 
I  saw  cathedrals  and  castles  and  temperance  hotels. 
A  bleak  and  unfriendly  land !  Somehow  I  could  not 
find  the  key  of  it  all.  Those  sullen  people  living  in 
the  quaint  streets  round  a  superb  cathedral — they 
were  no  kin  of  the  men  who  built  it  or  the  men  who 
prayed  and  worshipped  in  it  either.  Indeed,  you 
can  often  find  the  cathedral  empty  and  a  sheet-iron 
shack  round  the  corner  near  the  railroad  full  of  men 
and  women  shouting  their  heads  off.  And  the  rich 
people  who  lived  in  the  castles  had  not  much  in 
common  with  the  men  who  built  them.  It  wasn't, 
mind  you,  that  I  was  envying  these  people  or  even 
quarrelling  with  them.  It  wasn't  that  they  were 
not  orderly  and  hard-working  and  conscientious. 
They  were  all  that.  No,  it  was  a  curious  impression 
they  gave  me  of  being  only  half  alive.  I  used  to 
watch  them  in  church,  in  saloons,  in  theatres,  and 
they  seemed  oppressed  by  some  malign  invisible  fate 
standing  over  them  and  taking  much  of  the  sparkle 
out  of  their  souls.  I  was  oppressed,  too,  by  the 
same  influence.     I  used   to   wonder   what   it   was. 


218  ALIENS 

Only  at  the  football  matches  did  it  seem  to  hft  at 
all.  I  always  enjoyed  the  football.  It  was  there 
you  could  catch  in  their  faces  the  light  of  battle 
and  the  lust  of  conflict.  There  their  features  were 
sharpened  to  the  tenseness  you  find  hardened  into 
a  type  here  in  America,  men  who  are  alive!  But 
most  of  the  time  each  class  was  oppressed  by  the 
one  above  it.  Away  at  the  top  was  the  great  ship- 
owning  peer,  the  colossus  of  that  particular  part  of 
the  country,  an  ominous  and  omnipotent  figure. 
Below  him  were  other  shipowners,  smaller  fry,  living 
in  fine  houses  where  they  had  made  their  money, 
connected  by  marriage  with  the  next  below,  still 
smaller  shipowners  and  men  who  had  built  up  suc- 
cessful repair-shops  and  ship-stores.  Next  came  the 
retired  ship-masters,  living  in  villas  named  after 
their  last  commands,  and  skippers  still  at  sea,  their 
wives  watching  each  other  like  cats  at  church  on 
Sunday.  Then,  in  tiny  semi-detached  brick  boxes 
up  narrow  streets  behind  all  these  you  would  find 
mates  and  engineers  packed  like  sardines.  Their 
families,  I  mean.  I  often  used  to  think  of  the 
abstract  folly  of  these  men  calling  such  places 
'home'  when  they  sometimes  were  away  years  on 
entl.  Our  chief  mate  took  pity  on  me  one  week-end 
and  invited  me  over  to  his  house  at  Hartlepool.  I 
forget  which  Hartlepool  it  was,  it  doesn't  matter 
now.  I  remember,  however,  that  we  had  to  make 
several  connections  on  branch  lines  to  get  there, 
and  it  was  a  continuous  stampede  from  saloon  to 
junction  and  from  junction  to  saloon.  I  couldn't 
understand  it  at  first,  for  the  mate  was  a  decent. 


ALIENS  219 

wide-open  sort  of  chap,  and  fairly  sober  considering 
he  had  once  been  master  and  so  had  an  inducement 
to  drown  dull  care.  But  I  discovered  that  his  wife 
wouldn't  have  it  in  the  house,  and  he  was  fortifying 
himself  against  a  'dry  week-end.'  It  certainly  was 
dry  to  me.  The  house,  partly  paid  for  when  he  had 
a  collision  and  lost  his  job  in  the  Fort  Line,  was 
still  called  Fcyrt  William  after  his  ship,  and  I  could 
see  that  the  name-plate  had  been  carved  out  of 
teak  by  the  carpenter  to  please  *the  old  man.'  How 
were  the  mighty  fallen !  You  know,  there  was  some- 
thing pathetic  to  me  in  that  man's  drop  from 
master  to  mate.  To  him  it  was  more  than  pathetic, 
it  was  the  next  thing  to  the  end  of  the  world.  He 
was  just  an  average  seaman.  He  had  no  culture, 
no  art,  no  religion,  no  philosophy  to  support  him  or 
act  as  a  substitute  in  such  a  misfortune.  Even  his 
children  did  not  seem  to  compensate  him.  Rather 
they  aggravated  the  case.  They  could  no  longer  be 
referred  to  as  Captain  Tateham's  children.  He  was 
only  plain  Mr.  Tateham  now,  Fred  to  us;  and  when 
the  Corydon  was  going  out  through  the  dock-gates 
to  make  the  tide,  anybody  who  wanted  might  see 
Mr.  Tateham  on  her  forecastle  head,  standing 
glumly  in  the  rain  amid  a  tangle  of  ropes  and  half- 
boozed  sailors  and  wisps  of  steam  from  the  windlass. 
Here  was  the  same  thing  over  again  as  occurred  in 
our  own  case.  The  root  of  it  all  was  pride,  the 
cursed  pride  that  makes  each  class  ape  and  envy 
the  one  above  it,  and  stamp  on  the  faces  of  the 
one  below.  Here  it  was,  and  it  was  England.  This 
man   had   a   grand   little   wife  and   three  beautiful 


220  ALIENS 

clever  children  winning  scholarships  at  the  grammar- 
school.  He  had  a  microscopic  home  partly  paid  for 
and  a  safe-enough  competency.  Yet,  because  he 
had  slipped  a  cog  he  was  damnably  unhapp3^  His 
pride  was  bruised.  Fate  had  given  him  a  nasty 
knock.  He  shook  his  head  when  I  spoke  hopefully 
of  him  getting  a  command  in  our  company.  His 
wife  said  nothing.  Of  course,  although  I  didn't 
know  it  then,  for,  as  I  have  said,  I  do  not  naturally 
suspect  men,  the  fact  was  she  knew  and  the  owners 
knew  and  the  underwriters  knew  why  he  had  had  a 
collision.  She  had  her  reasons  for  keeping  liquor 
out  of  the  house.  It  was  not  a  very  happy  week- 
end for  me,  for  the  sight  of  those  two  straight,  intel- 
ligent lads  and  their  charming,  golden-haired  sister 
turning  and  turning  inside  that  tiny  house  just  be- 
cause it  was  Sunday  and  a  visitor  was  present,  got 
on  my  mind.  I  saw  away  ahead,  and  wondered  if 
they  would  have  any  luck  in  their  fight  with  gen- 
tility !     Humph ! 

"No,  I  was  not  enamoured  of  what  I  saw  of  Eng- 
land. And  I  found  I  was  reluctant  to  go  to  my  own 
home.  I  suppose  it  had  so  many  regrettable  mem- 
ories. Anyhow,  voyage  after  voyage  I  put  off  my 
visit,  and  so  one  trip,  coming  home  to  Tyne  Dock, 
I  found  I  had  put  it  off  once  too  often.  My  mother, 
who  had  been  living  at  Brighton,  was  dead.  It  is 
curious  how  the  sea  seems  to  sterilize  the  emotions 
in  some  natures.  Perhaps  I  am  wrong,  and  judge 
the  general  from  the  particular.  Perhaps  we  are 
deficient  in  power  to  express  grief.  Perhaps  we 
don't  feel  it.    I  don't  know.    I  have  known  men  at 


ALIENS  221 

sea  who  raved  about  their  parents'  perfections  and 
I  was  unable  to  sympathize  and  regale  them  with 
anecdotes  about  my  'old  lady.'  I  couldn't.  I  don't 
remember  ever  talking  to  anybody  about  my 
mother.  That  isn't  to  say  for  a  single  instant,  how- 
ever, that  I  didn't  esteem  her.  We  simply  were  not 
designed  to  fit  into  the  same  scheme.  We  were  of 
different  generations.  We  were  of  cross-grained 
stuff,  if  I  may  say  so,  dour  and  tough  and  ill  to 
match  with  common  deal,  and  our  roots  were  sunk 
in  the  restless,  estranging  sea. 

"And  so  once  more  I  came  to  London,  a  wan- 
derer, noting  what  had  been  built  and  what  pulled 
down.  London!  Never  for  a  single  day  will  they 
let  it  alone.  It  is  like  some  vast  cellular  organism 
asprawl  on  the  Thames  mud,  forever  heaving  and 
sweating  and  rotting  and  growing.  A  fungus,  a 
sponge,  sucking  in  the  produce  of  continents,  send- 
ing out  the  wealth  of  empires.  I  used  to  stand  on 
London  Bridge  and  watch  the  steamers  loading  and 
discharging  from  the  grimy  overhanging  warehouses. 
A  busman's  hoHday,  you  say.  But  there  didn't 
seem  anything  else  to  do  while  I  was  waiting  for  a 
ship.  I  found  my  old  British  Museum  Reading 
Room  pass  among  my  papers  at  home  and  I  used 
it  one  day  to  look  in  upon  my  bygone  haunts.  It 
gave  me  a  shock  to  see  some  of  the  same  old  grey- 
haired  men  and  women  reading  out  of  the  same  silly 
old  tomes.  Yes !  I  w^as  almost  ready  to  swear  one  old 
girl  was  at  the  same  page  as  I  left  her  years  before. 
And  the  suggestions  in  the  manuscript  complaint 
book!     Good  Lord!    I  glanced  at  it  as  I  wandered 


222  ALIENS 

round,  for  it  had  often  amused  me  in  the  past  to 
see  the  weird  and  wonderful  volumes  the  authorities 
were  asked  to  procure.     And  here  I  found  some 
crazy  soul  had  demanded  the  first  volume  of  the 
Chinese    Zetetic    Society's    proceedings.      Another 
complained  of  a  lack  of  text-books  treating  of  secret 
societies  in  the  Tenth  Century.    And  the  world  was 
going  round  outside  all  the  time!    I  looked  at  them, 
these  men  and  women — their  shoulders  humped  as 
they  scratched  with  their  absurd  quill-pens,  their 
faces  pallid  with  the  light  reflected  from  the  pages. 
Some  few,  as  though  to  show  what  a  farce  the  whole 
business  could  be,  had  got  out  a  perfect  library  of 
books,  bastions  of  them,  and  lay  back  in  their  chairs, 
snoring.    I  couldn't  bear  it.    I  had  to  get  out.    The 
air  was  stifling  me  after  the  open  sea,  so  I  left  that 
subsidized  lunatic  asylum  and  took  the  steamboat 
up  the  river  to  Hammersmith.     It  was  spring,  late 
spring,   and   there  was   a  whisper  in  the  air  that 
meant,  if  I  read  it  rightly,  love  and  romance  and 
youth.     It  was  all  round  me  as  I  walked  out  to 
Ealing.    It  was  in  the  orchards  as  I  rode  on  that  old 
horse-omnibus  that  used  to  run  between  Ealing  and 
Brentford.    And  next  day  I  left  the  hotel  and  went 
out  to   where   we   used   to   live,   on   the  Northern 
Heights,   Gentility's  Last  Ditch  before  they   suc- 
cumbed to  the  onward  rush  of  the  street-car  and  the 
realty   agent!      Spring   was    whispering   there   too, 
creepers  were  growing  over  new  villas,  new  streets 
were  scored  across  our  old  cricket  and  tennis  ground 
by  the  church,  an  old  tavern  had  been  rebuilt  in  the 
very  latest  Mile-End-Road  style.     Our  old  house 


ALIENS  223 

had  a  motor  garage  built  on  one  side  of  it,  a  green- 
roofed  shack.  Many  of  our  neighbours  had  For 
Sale  boards  over  their  gates.  Some  had  gone.  A 
couple  of  brick  pillars  with  stone  pineapples  on  top 
of  them  had  been  put  up  at  the  entrance  to  a  farm 
on  the  other  side  of  the  railway  and  a  board  said 
it  was  the  site  of  Ashbolton  Park,  a  high  class  resi- 
dential estate.  Some  residents,  I  observed,  were 
making  a  stand.  One  old  lady,  who  had  lived  all 
her  life  on  the  Great  North  Road,  and  who  was 
resolved  to  die  there,  had  built  a  brick  wall  right 
round  her  little  estate,  a  brick  wall  with  a  high, 
narrow  iron  gate  in  the  middle,  through  which  you 
could  see  the  sullen  Georgian  house  crouching  at 
the  back,  like  a  surly  old  bear.  Must  have  been  a 
joyous,  household.  I  looked  for  my  old  sweetheart's 
home.  It  was  there,  but  strangers  lived  in  it.  A 
servant  I  spoke  to  on  her  way  to  the  post  told  me 
they  had  been  moved  to  Chislehurst  some  time. 
The  last  ditch!  In  a  way  I  felt  it,  this  crumbling 
and  withering  of  the  old  order,  the  order  of  which 
my  parents  had  vainly  tried  to  become  companions. 
For  it  was  typical  of  England.  I  felt  it  most  when 
I  walked  out  on  the  Great  North  Road  through 
Barnet  and  saw  the  huge  notice-boards  up  over  the 
walls  of  princely  domains,  telling  me  how  this  de- 
sirable property  and  that  magnificent  country  seat 
was  to  be  sold  at  auction  at  Tokenhouse  Yard  on 
such  and  such  a  date.  It  was  hitting  the  seats  of 
the  mighty,  you  might  say,  this  insidious  growth 
and  crumble  and  decay.  Nothing  could  stand 
against   it.     The   strong,   stark   virtues,   the  high 


324  ALIENS 

courage  and  honour  and  fine  courtesy,  the  patronage 
of  arts  and  letters  and  rehgion  which  was  the  spirit 
of  that  old  order,  were  all  gone,  and  now  the  very 
shell  and  imitation  of  it  was  going,  and  we  must 
prepare  for  the  new  people  and  their  new  ways. 
A  new  world.  Only  the  road,  the  Great  North 
Roman  Road,  seemed  never  to  alter.  A  few  inches 
more  metalling,  perhaps,  another  generation  of 
menders,  and  so  on.  The  traffic,  of  course,  was 
different,  for  the  traflSc  is  the  world.  Indeed,  when 
you  stop  and  reflect,  you  will  see  that  a  great  road 
like  this  one  I  was  walking  on  that  warm  spring 
day,  is  a  pulsing  artery.  London,  that  immense 
heart,  with  its  systole  and  diastole,  its  ebb  and 
flow  and  putrefying  growth,  lay  beating  behind  me. 
Ahead  lay  that  grey,  brooding  North,  that  vast 
coal-field  whose  output  had  made  us  masters  of  the 
world.  Take  it  how  you  will,  you  must  have  roads. 
That  is  America's  need  to  day — roads.  Without 
roads  no  art,  no  literature,  no  real  progress.  No 
canals  or  railroads  will  do.  Canals  are  too  slow, 
railroads  too  fast.  It  is  true  they  have  brought 
trade  and  prosperity  to  the  Great  North  West  and 
the  Great  South  West  and  the  Great  Middle  West 
and  all  the  other  wests;  but  you  cannot  build  up  a 
great  civilization  on  railroads.  You  must  have 
roads,  with  pilgrims,  or  hoboes  if  you  like,  and 
artists  and  poets  on  foot,  and  taverns  and  talk. 
Railroads  are  the  tentacles  of  plutocracy.  Roads 
are  democratic  things. 

"I  was  thinking  very  much  on  these  lines  that 
day  and  I  was  in  the  little  hollow  just  beyond  the 


ALIENS  225 

Kingmaker's  obelisk.  The  sun  had  gone  down  be- 
hind Mill  Hill  and  the  evening  was  full  of  blue 
shadows,  full  of  the  odour  of  smoke  and  sap,  full  of 
mysteriously  comfortable  silences.  For  a  few  mo- 
ments that  particular  rod,  pole  or  perch  of  the 
great  road  was  empty  save  for  me  and  a  lamp- 
lighter on  a  bicycle,  who  was  coming  towards  me, 
riding  one  hand,  his  torch  over  his  shoulder,  a  sort 
of  elderly  Mercury  illuminating  an  empty  world. 
On  the  left  the  great  trees  stood  up  close  to  the  road, 
great  shafts,  the  children  of  those  who  had  stood 
there  when  the  legions  came  up  out  of  the  Thames 
valley  and  marched  north  into  the  jungle.  On  the 
right  the  meadows  rolled  away  eastward  towards 
Enfield  and  Cheshunt  and  Broxbourne,  meadow  and 
copse  and  cornland.  The  lamplighter  passed  me 
with  a  soft  buzz  and  click  of  sprocket  wheels,  and 
looking  back  at  him  idly,  I  caught  the  sound  of  the 
church-clock  at  Barnet  striking  the  hour.  The 
chime  focussed  my  thoughts  on  the  great  peace  of 
the  land.  Here  at  any  rate,  I  thought,  man  has 
topped  the  rise.  He  has  accomplished  all  he  set 
out  to  do  and  the  result  is  peace  and  happiness.  I 
was  sentimentalizing,  no  doubt,  for  I  have  never 
been  able  to  live  in  the  country.  But  as  I  stood 
there,  looking  back,  the  spell  was  broken.  I  heard 
a  roar  of  a  horn,  one  of  those  ear-shattering  inven- 
tions that  paralyze  one's  faculties,  a  grinding  of 
gears  and  a  slither  of  rubber  tyres,  and  then  the  yell 
of  a  human  voice.  As  I  turned  to  jump  I  was  nearly 
blinded  by  two  enormous  headlights.  And  the  voice 
that  had  yelled,  a  half -familiar  voice,  shouted, '  What 


226  ALIENS 

the  blazes  do  you  go  to  sleep  in  the  middle  of  the 
bally  road  for,  eh?'  I  couldn't  see  anything  at  all 
until  I  had  reached  the  grass  at  the  side  of  the  road, 
when  I  made  out  a  long  automobile  standing  askew 
across  the  road  and  panting.  There  was  a  low, 
semicircular  seat  with  a  man  in  it  behind  a  large 
steering  wheel,  a  seat  so  slanted  that  its  occupant 
was  practically  recumbent.  He  had  ear-flaps  and 
monstrous  goggles.  I  had  a  momentary  mental 
picture  of  him  as  some  Roman  staff-oflScer  rushing 
back  to  the  base  in  his  chariot.  He  had  an  imperious 
air  as  he  glared  at  me  and  backed  his  machine  with 
one  hand  to  straighten  it.  I  found  my  voice.  I 
said,  *I  have  as  much  right  to  the  road  as  you.' 
*What.'^'  he  said,  in  a  high  note.  'To  stand  in  the 
middle  and  block  the  traffic.  What  are  you.^^  An 
escaped  lunatic?  Have  you  made  your  will,  hey?' 
'Oh,'  I  retorted,  'If  you've  bought  the  road,  or  the 
earth,  I'll  get  off  it,  of  course.  I  should  have  said 
you  were  the  escaped  lunatic  going  along  at  that 
pace.'  He  laughed,  a  high,  reedy  cackle  that  seemed 
familiar,  rose  stiffly  out  of  his  place  and  stepped 
down  as  though  he  had  cramp.  'Ouch!'  he  said, 
bending  and  straightening  to  unlimber  himself. 
'Where  are  we,  hey?  Barnet?  Taking  an  evening 
stroll  after  the  office?'  And  he  took  off  his  goggles 
and  I  saw  my  young  brother's  bright  dark  eyes 
and  high-bridged  nose  and  sarcastic  mouth.  He 
shouted  with  laughter,  went  off  again  into  his  reedy 
cry,  and  screamed,  "Pon  my  soul,  it's  Charley! 
Well,  I'm  .  .  .  Where  in  the  wide,  wide  world 
did  you  spring  from?     Revisiting  the  glimpses  of 


ALIENS  227 

the  moon?     Good  heavens!'     And  he  gripped  my 
shoulder. 

"That  was  how  we  met  in  after  years.  He  was  at 
his  ease  at  once.  I  was  bewildered.  'By  Jove,  I 
nearly  did  for  you  that  time.  Nobody  but  a  mad- 
man would  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  Great  North 
Road  to  admire  the  scenery,  old  chap.  It's  suicide. 
An  amateur  would  have  had  you  in  mince-meat.' 
He  stooped  to  examine  his  brake.  'Charred,  by 
Jove!  And  I  expect  some  of  the  gears  are  stripped 
too.    Get  in.*" 

"'Get  in!' I  said  in  astonishment.    'What  for?' 

"'Why,  come  up  to  town  and  have  dinner  with 
me,  of  course,'  he  laughed.  'The  Prodigal  Son. 
Which  of  us  two  is  the  Prodigal,  Charley? 
'Pon  my  soul,  I  believe  you  are.  You've  been 
wandering  all  over  the  world,  I  believe.  I  went  to 
the  funeral — ^you  know.'  I  nodded.  'And  the  old 
chap  said  you  were  in  some  frightful  hole  or  other. 
Well,  let  me  get  in  and  you  can  sit  on  the  step.  I'll 
take  you  up  to  my  digs.' 

"And  that  is  what  he  did  do,  at  a  speed  I  could 
scarcely  realize  save  by  the  wind  that  roared  past 
my  ears.  We  dropped  down  Barnet  Hill  like  a 
bullet,  we  rushed  through  the  gloaming  with  those 
blinding  white  beams  cleaving  the  quiet  gloom 
ahead  of  us  and  throwing  preternaturally  sharp 
shadows  that  reeled  into  oblivion  like  drunken  gob- 
lins. It  seemed  to  me,  after  my  quiet  meditative 
stroll,  a  monstrous  invasion.  We  would  flash  round 
a  curve  with  a  whoop  of  the  horn,  and  those  pitiless 
rays  would  suddenly  reveal  in  stark  loneliness  a  man 


228  ALIENS 

and  a  girl,  clasped  in  each  other's  arms.  Or  they 
would  loom  up  ahead,  walking  and  lovemaking,  and 
the  sound  of  the  horn  would  strike  them  to  atti- 
tudes of  paralyzed  fear.  Once  we  overtook  a  party 
in  a  trap,  jogging  pleasantly  homeward,  and  we 
left  them  holding  for  their  lives  and  the  horse  rear- 
ing with  terror.  I  was  holding  on  for  my  own  dear 
life,  for  that  matter.  My  brother  lay  back  in  his 
seat  and  carried  on  a  loud  monologue  directed  at 
me.  He  said  he  had  to  go  to  Southampton  that 
night  on  urgent  business,  but  must  dine  first.  Was 
going  to  motor.  This  was  a  Stromboli,  hundred 
horse-power  racing  machine.  He  was  agent  for 
Stromboli's.  Had  sold  a  lot  of  cars  at  twelve  hun- 
dred guineas  each.  Had  been  up  in  Scotland  stay- 
ing at  a  country-house.  And  so  on.  I  listened,  but 
had  nothing  to  say.  He  had  no  interest  in  my  affairs, 
and  every  word  he  said  showed  me  we  were  nothing 
and  could  be  nothing  to  each  other.  And  yet  it  had 
so  happened  that  he  had  been  to  our  mother's 
funeral,  he  had  played  the  proper  part  while  I  was 
away  on  the  ocean,  a  wanderer  and  a  prodigal.  He 
even  had,  as  I  saw  later,  a  band  of  crape  on  his  arm, 
which  somehow  I  had  forgotten  to  wear.  He  made 
me  feel  insignificant  and  hopelessly  inferior.  And 
suddenly,  as  I  clung  there,  another  thought  sprang 
up  in  my  mind,  the  possibility  that  I  might  even 
now  be  on  the  way  to  a  meeting  with  Gladys  again. 
Not  that  I  had  any  rational  reason  to  dread  such  a 
meeting.  Indeed,  it  was  she  who  had  left  me  and 
gone  to  him.  But  I  did  dread  it  all  the  same.  I 
knew  it  would  find  me  tongue-tied  and  foolish.    I 


ALIENS  229 

could  not  rise  to  it  and  do  myself  justice.  I  am,  I 
suppose,  too  self-conscious  and  shy. 

"And  soon  we  roared  into  lights  and  asphalt 
pavements  and  the  heavy  traffic.  We  crossed  Mary- 
lebone  Road  and  flew  down  Baker  Street.  Even  I, 
ignorant  as  I  was,  had  to  admire  the  way  my  brother 
manoeuvred  his  huge  machine  round  the  buses  and 
cabs.  It  was  skill,  sheer  skill,  with  a  dash  of  luck 
that  was  very  hke  genius.  We  were  in  Piccadilly 
soon  after  and  then,  turning  into  a  quiet  street,  we 
stopped  and  the  engine  stopped  too.  A  man  in 
livery  came  running  down  from  the  house  and  I 
followed  my  brother  up  the  steps  into  a  richly 
furnished  hall,  with  Sheraton  chairs  and  Persian 
rugs  and  oriental  vases.  Frank  took  several  letters 
and  a  telegram  from  a  green-baize  board  with  pink 
tape  bands  cutting  it  into  a  diamond-pattern,  and 
beckoned  me  to  follow  him  up-stairs.  I  did  so,  and 
we  went  into  what  he  had  called  his  'digs.' 

"You  must  understand,  of  course,  that  I  am  no 
judge  of  the  way  the  rich  live.  I  can  say  truthfully 
that  my  tastes  are  simple.  If  I  had  millions  I  really 
don't  know  that  I  should  buy  very  much.  Most 
probably  I  should  be  a  miser  as  regards  my  own 
personal  expenses.  But  for  all  that  I  could  see  that 
my  brother's  apartment  was  extraordinarily  rich  in 
its  appointments.  There  were  so  many  details  you 
could  not  imitate  cheaply.  A  man  could  sit  in  those 
rooms,  and  eat  in  those  rooms  and  go  to  bed  there 
and  feel  that  he  was  rich.  He  might  even  feel  happy, 
for  they  were  not  only  rich  and  convenient,  but 
comfortable.    I  was  left  in  a  deep  leather  chair  by  a 


230  ALIENS 

wood  fire  burning  in  a  bronze  grate,  in  a  room  with 
chocolate-distempered  walls  hung  with  prints  in  black 
frames  and  one  or  two  water-colours  in  white  frames. 
I  looked  across  at  a  small  cabinet  of  books  just  above 
a  writing  table  covered  with  many  implements  in 
bronze  and  ivory.  For  a  moment  I  was  reminded  of 
those  model  rooms  in  department  stores.  I  suppose 
that  was  unfair,  but  my  sea-training  had  taught 
me  that  many  tools  generally  mean  a  bad  work- 
man. Somehow,  the  moment  the  rich  man  blun- 
ders into  any  department  of  the  world's  labour, 
his  wealth  shows  at  a  disadvantage.  And  gold  pens 
and  silver  inkpots  and  jade  paper-weights  are  as 
incongruous  as  ivory-handled  sledge-hammers  and 
rose- wood  jack-planes,  when  you  come  to  think 
of  it. 

"And  if  I  were  to  judge  such  ways  of  living  by 
that  one  experience,  I  should  say  that  a  man  would 
eventually  lose  his  sense  of  interior  values.  All 
these  beautiful,  useful  and  convenient  things  would 
assist  him  to  greater  achievement  and  finer  virtue, 
but  it  would  not  be  the  same  achievement  and  virtue 
that  would  emerge  if  he  had  stayed  down  in  the 
arena  and  lodged  with  the  gladiators  in  the  back- 
streets.  It  couldn't  be.  Perhaps  the  men  who 
could  get  the  most  out  of  wealthy  environment  are 
those  like  my  brother,  who  simply  care  nothing  for 
achievement  or  virtue  as  such,  who  live  uncon- 
sciously for  themselves  and  never  have  any  sense  of 
interior  values,  as  I  call  them,  at  all.  Their  lives  are 
like  an  exquisite  design  of  nymphs  and  fauns  and 
satyrs  on  an  Etruscan  jar — beautiful,  rounded,  com- 


ALIENS  231 

plete.    And  inside  the  jar  is  nothing  but  a  handful  of 
rubbish.   .    .    . 

"So  I  reflected  as  I  sat  in  that  deep  chair  and 
watched  the  wood-fire  burning  in  the  bronze  grate. 
A  silent  man  in  a  black  suit  came  in  and  put  a  de- 
canter and  siphon  at  my  elbow  and  went  out  again. 
Suddenly  a  phrase  I  had  heard  at  sea  came  back  to 
me,  sharp  and  resonant.  I  was  talking  to  old  Fred 
Tateham,  the  mate,  one  day,  he  who  had  had  a  col- 
lision and  lost  his  command,  and  he  had  been  telling 
me  his  plans  for  his  younger  boy.  He  was  going  to 
put  him  in  his  brother's  oflSce.  'You  know,'  said  he, 
*I've  a  very  successful  brother.'  I  forget  what  this 
successful  brother  had  succeeded  in — some  genteel 
profession  like  accountancy  or  attorney.  It  struck 
me  as  amusing  at  the  time,  a  man  boasting  of  the 
possession  of  a  successful  brother,  just  as  he  might 
proclaim  his  pride  in  a  clever  child  or  a  fine  garden 
or  a  good  terrier.  And  now  the  phrase  came  back 
as  one  I  could  use  myself.  I  had  'a  very  successful 
brother.'  To  confirm  this  whimsical  notion,  the  suc- 
cessful brother  entered  the  room  in  evening  dress, 
with  a  band  of  crape  on  the  arm  and  a  black  tie. 
He  was  irreproachable  as  he  stood  on  the  rug  snap- 
ping black  amber  buttons  into  his  cuffs  and  settling 
his  shirt-front.  He  was  so  irreproachable  that  I  lost 
my  feeling  of  discomfort  and  inferiority  in  his  pres- 
ence. He  leaned  his  head  on  the  carved  stone  frame 
of  the  fire-place  and  stared  at  the  flames  thought- 
fully. 

"*You  live  here  alone?*  I  asked,  and  he  nodded. 
;    "'For  long?'    He  shook  his  head.    'I  never  stop 


232  ALIENS 

long  in  digs/  he  remarked,  *I  get  sick  of  them,  don't 
you  know,  and  try  fresh.' 

'"Where's  Gladys?'  I  inquired,  almost  without 
knowing  what  I  said.  I  was  as  surprised  as  he  was 
at  such  temerity.     For  an  instant  he  did  not  know 

what  I  meant.     'Gladys,'  said  he.     *Who  the 

Oh!  now  I  remember I  don't  know.    Yes,'  he 

went  on,  turning  back  to  the  fire,  'I  remember  now, 
Charley.  I  don't  suppose  I  looked  very  well  from 
your  point  of  view,  but  all  the  same  you  haven't 
come  home  with  a  dagger  in  your  sleeve,  have  you?' 
He  laughed.  'By  Jove,  you  weren't  prowling  along 
that  road  to-night  waiting  to  stab  me,  were  you, 
Charley?    Like  some  bally  foreigner.' 

"'You  know  I  wasn't,'  I  said.  'And  besides,  I 
had  no  selfish  reasons  for  asking.  I  thought  you 
might  be  engaged.' 

'"I  engaged?'  he  said,  and  shook  his  head.  'I'm 
not  a  marrying  man.  I  wonder  if  we're  going  to 
die  out,  we  Carvilles.  Rotten  race,  anyhow.  We 
seem  to  have  no  luck  with  our  women.  The 
mater  was  the  only  one.  You  should  have  seen 
them  at  the  funeral.  My  God!  No  luck  with  our 
women,  Charley.  A  natural  tendency  towards 
the  lower  middle  classes.  Don't  you  ever  feel 
it?  Like  splashing  through  mud  in  dress  pumps. 
I  do.  It's  our  curse,  I  believe.  The  Curse  of  the 
Carvilles ! ' 

"I  was  so  dumfounded  at  this  unexpected  piece 
of  gratuitous  slander  that  I  sat  perfectly  still,  al- 
though the  silent  servant  in  black  had  come  in  and 
announced  dinner,  and  my  brother  was  telling  me 


ALIENS  23S 

to  go  and  have  a  spruce-up  in  his  dressing  room. 
It  was  like  being  knocked  on  the  head  with  a  wooden 
mallet.  I  was  stunned.  Even  when  I  found  my- 
self in  a  small  room  full  of  bureaus  and  wardrobes 
and  had  nearly  walked  into  a  double  full-length 
mirror,  I  still  felt  stunned.  He  wondered  if  we  were 
going  to  die  out,  did  he.  And  he  assumed,  with  a 
blood-freezing  fatalism,  that  we  both  had  a  de- 
praved taste  in  women.  I  looked  round  helplessly 
for  a  wash-stand  and  caught  sight  of  a  bath-room 
beyond  a  blue  portiere.  A  natural  tendency  to- 
wards the  lower-middle  class,  if  you  please!  And  I 
was  just  on  the  point  of  telling  him  about  my  sweet- 
heart in  Genoa!  Going  into  the  bath-room,  I  al- 
most fell  into  a  porcelain  bath  set  in  jBush  with  the 
floor.  A  huge  basin  full  of  hot  water  stood  ready 
under  the  nickelled  faucets.  Soaps  of  many  colours 
lay  at  hand.  Nail-scrubbers,  manicuring  tools, 
towels,  sponges,  creams,  talcum  powders,  denti- 
frices, hair-lotions,  blue  bottles  (with  vermilion 
labels  marked  poison),  green  bottles  marked  am- 
monia, bottles  with  bulbs  and  sprays,  cases  of 
razors,  festoons  of  strops — all  these  stood  or  lay 
on  shelves  at  my  elbow  as  I  proceeded  to  wash  my 
hands  and  face  with  a  piece  of  yellow  primrose 
soap  that  by  some  chance  was  among  the  welter  of 
expensive  brands.  No  luck  with  our  women,  ob- 
serve. I  certainly  had  had  no  luck  with  Gladys. 
But  he,  he,  to  whom  women  ran  as  though  he  were 
a  necromancer,  as  though  he  had  the  secret  of 
some  spell  that  would  make  them  forever  youthful 
and  lovely  and  happy — what  complaint   dared   he 


234  ALIENS 

make  against  them?  Yet  he  had  formulated  the 
monstrous  theory  that  'our  family'  must  either 
succumb  to  the  lower-middle  class  or  die  out  be- 
cause of  our  unfortunate  luck  with  our  women. 
It  was  one  of  those  propositions  which  are  simply 
preposterous  in  theory,  but  perfectly  true  in  fact. 
As  I  washed  my  face  in  that  expensive  basin  and 
rubbed  it  with  the  expensive  towels  and  brushed 
my  hair  with  the  expensive  ivory-backed  brushes, 
I  lighted  upon  this  interesting  feature  of  my  brother's 
thesis.  It  was  true.  What  I  could  not  get  over  was 
how  the  dickens  he  had  discovered  it,  hving  as  he 
did.  It  struck  me  as  a  good  example  of  the  clever- 
ness that  is  so  much  more  useful  than  either  genius 
or  industry.  I  doubt  if  he  had  any  clear  notion  of 
what  was  meant  by  psychology,  but  he  had  in- 
tuitively divined  an  obscure  flaw  in  our  compli- 
cated mentality,  a  flaw  searching  back  to  some 
unsavoury  interlude  in  our  history.  Of  course, 
by  lower-middle  class  he  meant  servants.  This 
silent  chap  in  black,  with  the  hair  growing  low 
by  his  ears,  would  be  of  that  class,  the  lower- 
middle.  And — here  I  put  the  ivory-backed  brushes 
down  carefully  and  looked  at  myself  as  though  I 
saw  a  stranger  in  the  glass — and  what  was  more, 
by  the  same  token,  was  not  I,  a  seafaring  man, 
also  one  of  the  lower-middle?  Good  heavens!  I 
became  so  tangled  up  in  the  new  points  of  view 
suddenly  illuminated  by  my  brother's  outrageous 
remarks  that  I  nearly  stepped  into  his  expensive 
porcelain  bath  again.  And  then  I  heard  him 
calling  to  me  that  the  soup  was  getting  cold,  and 


ALIENS  235 

I  followed  the  servant  into  a  small  dining  room 
singularly  bare  of  everything  save  the  indispensable 
belongings  of  a  meal.  Even  the  pictures  were 
limited  to  one  on  each  wall,  as  though  more  might 
distract  the  diner  from  his  food.  Except  for  a  light 
over  the  lift  opening  there  were  only  two  electric 
candles  with  lemon  shades  on  the  table,  where  my 
brother  sat,  bolt  upright,  eating  soup. 

"Now,  you  know,  I  laughed  as  I  sat  down,  be- 
cause I  would  not  have  lived  in  this  fashion  at  all. 
My  idea  of  comfort,  I  reflected,  was  probably  lower- 
middle.  It  included  a  high  tea,  with  real  food  to 
eat,  and  a  book  propped  up  against  the  tea-cosy 
while  I  ate.  Once  or  twice  in  my  life  I  have  been 
at  the  mercy  of  a  table  d'hote  and  I  was  not  happy. 
Passenger  ships,  for  example.  They  have  all  sorts 
of  purees  and  consommSs  and  entreSs  and  fricassees 
and  souffles,  but  very  little  nourishing  food.  For 
some  mysterious  reason  they  serve  you  with  a 
homeopathic  dose  of  each  course  and  then  pitch 
about  half  a  ton  of  all  sorts  of  things  down  the 
garbage  shoot  into  the  sea,  for  the  gulls  and  fishes 
to  gorge  themselves  on.  No  doubt,  as  I  say,  my 
notions  were  wrong  and  my  brother's  were  right. 
No  use  quarrelling  about  tastes. 

"'Why  do  you  laugh,  Charley.?'  he  inquired.  *I 
was  thinking  of  what  you  said  about  our  unfor- 
tunate instincts,'  I  replied.  'No  doubt  it  is  true, 
but  I  was  wondering  how  you  discovered  it.' 

"  'I  should  say  it  was  obvious  in  the  past,'  he 
answered  gravely.  'As  for  the  present — you  and  I 
you  know — one  has  intuitions,  what.'^    And  I  have 


236  ALIENS 

talked  with  men  of  old  family,  and  they  have  told 
me  of  cases  they  know  of.' 

"*And  you  think,'  I  said,  'that  it  is  a  real  danger, 
to  marry  beneath  you?' 

"'Yes,'  he  said,  finishing  his  soup.  ^You  aren't 
contemplating  it,  are  you,  Charley?' 

"'I  don't  look  at  life  as  you  do,'  I  observed.  *I 
have  become  rather  tired  of  all  this  talk  about 
classes.  I  don't  feel  myself  to  be  a  blue-blooded 
person  at  all.  I  am  a  seafaring  man.  Plenty  of 
my  shipmates  marry  into  their  own  class — the  lower- 
middle  class.' 

"The  silent  person  in  black  came  in  with  a  bottle 
in  a  basket,  and  filled  our  glasses  with  a  white  wine. 
My  brother  turned  his  glass  round  as  he  looked  at 
me  solemnly.  'I  see,'  he  said,  and  began  to  eat  his 
fish. 

"'Of  course,'  I  went  on,  'your  intuitions,  as  you 
call  them,  are  quite  correct  as  regards  me,  because 
when  I  marry,  she  will  probably  be  just  what  you 
say.  She  would  be  as  uncomfortable  in  a  place  like 
this  as — as  I  am.' 

"'Good  God!'  he  muttered,  staring  at  me.  'Is  it 
as  bad  as  that?  I  should  have  thought  you  would 
be  glad  to  live  decently  when  you  get  the  chance.* 

"'I  have  simple  tastes,'  I  answered. 

"'So  have  the  beasts  of  the  field,'  he  retorted,  and 
fixed  his  eyes  moodily  upon  his  wine.    I  laughed. 

"'Far  better,'  I  said,  'to  go  each  his  own  road 
and  do  the  best  he  can.  I've  been  through  a  good 
deal,  Frank,  since  I  saw  you,  and  I  dare  say  you've 
been  through  a  lot  too,  only  different.    I've  worked 


ALIENS  237 

and  been  worked  upon,  and  I've  come  to  certain 
conclusions.  There  is  no  place  for  me  in  all  this 
ordered  English  life,  with  its  classes  and  masses 
and  so  on.  I  was  thinking  about  it  this  afternoon 
when  you  nearly  ran  over  me.  Pride  is  at  the  bot- 
tom of  half  the  misery  in  England.  Personal  in- 
tegrity is  all  I  ask  of  a  man,  modesty  what  I  admire 
most  in  a  woman.  As  for  what  you  call  splashing 
through  mud  in  dress-pumps,  I  know  what  you 
mean  and  I  avoid  it.  Worthless  women  are  to  be 
found  in  all  grades.  Marriage,  no  doubt,  is  a  lottery, 
not  only  for  us,  but  for  the  women.  I  doubt  if 
taking  thought  ever  makes  it  any  less  of  a  lottery. 
You  say  we  Carvilles  have  no  luck  with  our  women. 
I  wonder  what  'our  women'  would  say  if  they  heard 
you.  Are  we  the  last  word  in  humanity?  Are  we 
flawless  in  our  integrity  and  purpose  and  achieve- 
ment.'' ' 

"My  brother  shook  his  head  without  looking  up 
from  his  plate. 

"'That's  not  what  I  meant  at  all,'  he  remarked 
sullenly.  'That  sort  of  thing  doesn't  apply  to 
women.  I  was  referring  to  breeding.  Women  of 
breeding  would  not  trust  themselves  to  us.* 

"'Well,'  I  said,  'I  shan't  lose  any  sleep  about  it. 
If  I  were  chief  of  a  passenger  ship,  the  lady-passen- 
gers of  breeding ' 

"My  brother  waved  his  hand.  *Let  us  dry  up,' 
he  said.    'You  don't  understand.' 

"But  I  did!  I  knew  exactly  what  he  meant  and 
many  a  bitter  hour  it  had  cost  me  when  I  was  in- 
fatuated with  the  convent-bred  miss  who  had  trotted 


238  ALIENS 

after  him  as  soon  as  he  had  whistled  'come!'  Breed- 
ing! The  cant  of  it.  The  silly  dishonesty  of  it!  It 
is  like  those  little  three-by-two  front  yards  you  see 
in  suburban  streets,  the  last  contemptible  vestige 
of  the  rolling  park-lands  and  fair  demesnes  of  a  far- 
off  feudal  time.  It  is  like  the  silly  Latin  mottoes 
and  heraldic  crests  you  see  on  the  doors  of  auto- 
mobiles. It  is  a  fetish  in  England.  The  boy  from 
the  great  pubhc  schools  sets  the  fashion,  and  all  the 
little  tinpot  grammar-schools  and  academies  follow 
suit  and  ape  the  clothes  and  the  manners  and  the 
speech,  the  mincing  speech,  of  people  of  breeding. 
And  the  little  professional  people  who  live  in  sub- 
urban villas  do  the  same.  They  all  worship  and 
fear  the  fetish,  the  Collar-and-Tie  god.  You  had 
better  fasten  a  mill-stone  about  your  neck  and  be 
drowned  in  the  depths  of  the  sea  than  say  or  be  or 
do  anything  their  despicable  little  code  considers 
ill-bred.  Oh  yes,  I  knew  what  my  brother  meant  by 
breeding,  but  my  experience  had  not  tallied  with 
what  I  had  been  taught.  Sometimes  I  have  fancied 
that  some  strain  of  chivalry  had  kept  him  under  the 
illusion  of  birth  and  gentility.  And  then  I  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  one  of  those 
who  see  things  so  objectively  that  they  impress  one 
as  automatons.  They  don't  learn,  they  know. 
They  live  in  the  world  as  if  it  was  their  home.  They 
use  their  passions  and  desires  as  animals  use  their 
instincts.  They  have  no  diffidence  before  the  great 
facts  of  life.  And  having  this  franchise  in  their 
pockets,  so  to  speak,  this  permanent  pass  to  every 
quarter  of  the  City  of  the  World,  having  this  animal 


ALIENS  239 

candour  of  outlook,  they  are  naturally  inarticulate. 
They  are  easily  misunderstood  because  self-expres- 
sion is  foreign  to  them  and  they  have  no  interest  in 
abstract  propositions  as  such.  They  pick  up  a 
phrase  and  play  with  it  for  a  while,  just  as  a  kitten 
will  play  with  a  ball,  or  a  puppy  will  walk  round 
with  a  piece  of  wood  in  his  mouth,  pretending  it  is 
a  bone.  My  brother  was  a  good  example,  I  thought, 
of  this.  What  he  said  sounded  true,  and  as  far  as  he 
knew  was  true,  because  he  had  not  got  it  out  of 
books.  A  man  of  'good  family'  had  put  the  idea 
into  his  head.  No  doubt  he  would  forget  it  in  a 
month  or  so.  And  whatever  he  might  think  or  hear 
or  say,  he  would  go  on  living  his  very  untrammelled 
life,  unabashed  by  Time  or  the  perplexities  of 
existence,  until  .  .  . 

"And  here  I  stopped  in  my  reflections,  for  I  am 
giving  you  now  my  thoughts  as  I  walked  back  to  my 
lodgings  in  Bloomsbury.  I  stopped,  for  it  occurred 
to  me  that  a  man  whose  course  is  untrammelled 
may  easily  get  beyond  the  bounds  set  by  the  un- 
imaginative laws  of  the  community.  In  plain  words, 
I  stopped  to  wonder  admiringly  what  would  be- 
come of  him,  supposing  he  didn't  break  his  neck 
in  his  own  motor-cars.  I  had  seen  him  start,  the 
eight  cylinders  of  his  monstrous  and  ridiculous 
machine  thundering  their  unmuffled  exhaust  into  the 
night  and  scaring  the  passing  cab-horses.  He  had 
moved  off  with  a  wave  of  the  hand,  rather  pre- 
occupied with  a  portmanteau  that  was  strapped 
beside  him,  moved  off  down  Piccadilly  towards 
Chelsea  and  Clapham.    I  reflected,  as  I  passed  the 


240  ALIENS 

sombre,  crouching  shadow  of  the  Museum,  now  ne 
was  flying  under  the  stars  along  the  Surrey  roads, 
the  great  beams  splitting  the  darkness  ahead  of 
him,  the  dust  of  his  passing  settling  on  the  hedge- 
rows and  soiling  the  wayside  turf.  And  to  what  end, 
I  wondered,  did  my  successful  brother  rush  headlong 
through  the  night?  To  achieve  greater  success?  To 
preach  his  gospel  of  breeding?  To  succour  Gentility 
in  distress?     I  wondered  and  went  to  bed. 

"No,  I  did  not  see  him  again  until  long  after- 
ward, and  in  very  altered  circumstances,  as  they 
say.  The  harm  he  did  me  on  this  occasion  did  not 
come  home  until  later,  when  in  Italy  again,  I  read 
in  an  Italian  journal  some  of  the  details  of  the  affair. 
A  wave  of  anger  swept  over  me  then,  I  remember, 
at  having  been  so  far  fooled  as  to  preach  to  him 
my  gospel  of  integrity  in  men  and  modesty  in 
women,  while  he  was  deep  in  tortuous  finance  and 
unprofitable  intrigues.  Mind  you,  I  don't  know 
now  the  rights  of  the  affair.  The  counsel  for  the 
defence  made  a  brilliant  effort  to  establish  a  case 
of  the  chivalrous  shielding  of  a  lady.  He  claimed 
that  the  accused  had  been  lured  to  destruction  by 
the  voices  of  sirens.  A  man  of  brilliant  social  gifts, 
he  had  been  carried  away,  intoxicated,  by  his  suc- 
cess and  had  promised  more  than  he  could  perform. 
The  very  fact  of  the  lady  (of  rank)  not  coming  for- 
ward, but  leaving  the  prosecution  in  the  hands  of 
the  trustees,  was  a  proof  that  the  accused  was  more 
sinned  against  tihan  sinning.  And  so  on  and  so 
forth.  It  was  all  in  the  Weekly  Times.  I  walked 
up  to  the  Galleria  Mazzini  one  fine  evening  and  sat 


ALIENS  241 

in  the  Orpheum  reading  the  latest  performance  of 
my  successful  brother.  But  the  Italian  paper  which 
first  told  me  about  it  dealt  with  the  incident  from 
the  artistic  side.  There  are  a  good  many  Italians  in 
Egypt,  as  you  know,  and  this  paper  had  a  corre- 
spondent in  Cairo  with  a  sharp  pen  that  cut 
little  cameos  of  the  cosmopolitan  life  that  centres 
round  the  Esbekiah  Gardens.  For  my  brother 
had  gone  to  Southampton  on  urgent  business 
His  business  was  so  urgent  that  he  crossed  to 
France  that  night  and  went  straight  to  Mar- 
seilles, where  he  sailed  in  a  Messageries  Maritimes 
boat  to  Egypt.  The  article  in  the  paper  was  called 
The  Flight  into  Egypt.  The  new  arrival  at  Shep- 
heard's  Hotel  was  the  life  of  the  English  visitors 
still  staying  on  in  Cairo.  Parties  who  had  been 
living  among  the  Beduin  in  the  desert  came  back 
for  a  week  at  Shepheard's  and  were  entranced  with 
him  and  his  hundred-horse-power  car.  The  daughter 
of  a  Beyrout  ship-chandler  who  had  retired  and 
built  a  house  at  Heliopolis  was  infatuated  with  him 
and  tried  to  monopolize  him  at  the  dances.  Inci- 
dentally we  learned  that  his  hotel  expenses  were 
five  pounds  a  day.  This  interested  me  keenly,  be- 
cause at  the  same  time  I  was  living  in  ample  com- 
fort on  exactly  five  shillings  a  day.  I  suppose,  I 
don't  know,  for  I've  never  had  the  money  to  try  it 
— but  I  suppose  there  is  a  snap  and  a  tang  about  a 
life  that  costs  five  pounds  a  day,  which  is  irre- 
sistible to  some  souls.  Or  is  it  that  the  cost  of 
things  never  enters  into  these  untrammelled  peo- 
ple's heads  at  a\\?    I  wonder. 


242  ALIENS 

"But  for  all  my  personal  interest  in  that  Italian 
article  and  the  black  ending  in  Bow  Street  and  a 
sentence  of  three  years,  I  appreciated  the  author's 
treatment  of  his  subject.  He  made  a  short  story  of 
it  in  the  manner  of  Flaubert,  minute,  vivid  and 
grim.  He  showed  the  weekly  dances  wearing  thin 
at  the  end  of  the  season,  the  daughters  of  the 
Levantine  ship-chandlers,  and  Greek  tobacco  mer- 
chants, and  Maltese  petty  officials,  looking  rather 
bleak  at  the  prospect  of  another  barren  summer 
in  Alexandria,  when  a  new  planet  suddenly  swims 
into  their  ken,  young,  rich,  handsome,  fascinating. 
They  wake  up  again  and  the  fight  begins.  You  can 
see  the  Italian  journalist,  small,  dark,  with  a  pointed 
beard,  pointed  shoes,  and  sharp  points  of  light  in  his 
dark  eyes,  hovering  on  the  edge  of  the  dance  or 
perhaps  taking  a  turn  with  the  Levantine  lady, 
observant  and  urbane.  Things  go  on  like  this  for  a 
week  or  so  when,  the  P.  and  O.  boat  from  Brindisi 
having  arrived  at  Port  Said  the  day  before,  two 
English  strangers  arrive  at  the  hotel.  There  is  a 
dance  that  evening.  I  don't  suppose  this  was 
strictly  true,  but  I  can  understand  the  artistic 
pleasure  it  would  give  the  Italian  journalist  to  make 
little  changes  like  that  in  his  story.  You  remember 
Sir  Walter  Scott's  confessed  passion  for  giving  a 
character  *a  new  hat  and  stick.'  Well,  there  was  a 
dance  that  evening,  let  us  say,  and  the  ladies,  tired 
of  the  eternal  English  officer  who  never  intends  to 
let  matters  come  to  a  head;  tired  of  the  French 
Canal  clerk  with  his  little  friend  in  Alexandria;  tired, 
perhaps,    even   of   the    witty   and   urbane   Italian 


ALIENS  243 

journalist,  who  I  imagine  loved  his  Genova  la  Su- 
perba,  his  Chianti  and  the  keen  air  and  heavenly 
blue  of  his  Ligurian  Apennines  far  more  than  he  did 
that  flat  Delta  full  of  all  the  half-breeds  of  the 
world — the  ladies  waited  expectantly  for  the  re- 
turn of  their  new  inspiration  from  Heliopolis,  where 
he  was  gone  with  a  party  in  his  hundred-horse- 
power ear.  They  wait  in  vain.  Later  the  party 
return,  somewhat  puzzled  themselves,  explaining 
that  two  gentlemen  had  come  out  and  interrupted 
the  affair  by  drawing  Mr.  Carville  aside  and  con- 
versing with  him  inaudibly.  And  Mr.  Carville 
makes  his  excuses.  He  apologizes  to  the  Beyrout 
ship-chandler  and  everybody  else,  but  he  must 
leave  with  his  friends  for  Port  Said  at  once  and 
catch  the  homeward-bound  mail-boat.  His  presence 
is  urgently  demanded  on  business  in  London.  The 
company  gape.  But  our  friend,  the  Italian  journalist, 
doesn't  go  in  for  gaping.  His  business  is,  after  all, 
news,  and  he  burrows  round,  interviewing  and  tele- 
graphing brothers  of  the  craft  until  he  lays  bare 
the  rather  pathetic  story.  He  doesn't  tell  it  among 
his  friends  in  the  Land  of  Egypt.  At  any  rate,  he 
says  he  doesn't.  He  saves  it  for  his  home  paper 
and  lavished  a  lot  of  literary  skill  upon  it.  I  imagine 
he  got  a  good  deal  of  fun  out  of  my  brother  while  he 
stayed  in  Cairo. 

"And  so,  you  see,  my  successful  brother  had  ex- 
perienced a  serious  set-back.  I  had  a  grim  feeling 
that  the  women,  *our  women,'  as  he  had  called 
them,  would  feel  it  far  more  in  their  seclusion  in 
Surbiton  than  he  would  in  his  seclusion  in — wher- 


244  ALIENS 

ever  he  was.  My  feelings,  in  fact,  were  so  grim  that 
Rosa  was  perplexed,  but  I  told  her  how  my  mother 
was  now  dead  and  I  had  no  one  in  the  world  save 
herself.  But  at  times  I  thought  of  our  affairs 
gloomily.  It  seemed  a  poor  end  to  our  parents* 
fine  dreams  for  the  future — him  so  seriously  set  back, 
you  may  say,  and  me  ploughing  the  ocean  .  .  . 

"And  then  it  so  happened  that  I  got  a  chance  of 
promotion  on  the  spot.  I'd  been  Second  of  the  old 
Corydon  a  good  while,  when  the  Callisto,  a  cattle- 
boat,  came  in  from  the  Argentine.  The  chief  had 
taken  sick  and  been  buried  at  sea.  The  owners 
telegraphed  I  was  to  take  the  post,  and  they  would 
send  out  another  Second.  It  was  very  exciting,  of 
course,  getting  in  charge  at  last.  It  is  extraordinary, 
the  weight  of  responsibility  that  settles  down  on 
you  all  at  once.  Matters  that  you  used  to  settle 
out  of  hand  assume  a  new  aspect  when  you  yourself 
become  the  ultimate  authority.  It  doesn't  matter 
how  hard  a  man  has  to  work  as  Second,  or  what  his 
troubles  may  be,  he's  always  got  the  Chief  behind 
him.  He  can  sleep  easy  and  deep,  as  he  generally 
does,  poor  chap.  But  the  Chief  is  different.  He 
becomes  a  fatalist.  He  can't  sleep.  He  has  to  make 
his  decisions  and  keep  his  forebodings  locked  in  his 
own  breast.  He  becomes  preoccupied  with  an  ab- 
surd weight  of  care.  He  realizes  that  he  cannot 
step  round  the  corner  and  get  the  overlooker's 
advice.  He  is  alone  on  the  wide  sea,  and  if  he  can- 
not solve  his  own  problems,  none  can  help  him. 
And  that  is  good  spiritual  discipline  for  a  young 
man.    He  finds  out  then  what  he  is  really  made  of. 


ALIENS  245 

"And  Rosa  was  excited  too,  for  it  meant  we 
could  soon  get  married  and  live  in  passable  comfort 
almost  anywhere  we  liked.  It  was  a  happy  time  for 
us.  You  see,  we  had  grown  accustomed  to  each 
other's  ways  and  habits.  We  had  struck  a  sort  of 
average,  and  knew  pretty  well  what  pleased  and 
what  jarred  each  other.  That,  I  imagine,  is  one  of 
the  secrets  of  living  with  a  woman.  Being  simply 
considerate  won't  do,  though,  of  course,  it  is  neces- 
sary. But  what  a  woman  does  hate  is  being  startled 
with  some  fresh  habit  or  idea.  It  spoils  her  illusion, 
her  necessary  illusion,  that  she  knows  all  about  you. 

"I  did  not  tell  her  anything  of  my  successful 
brother's  performances,  though  I  have  heard  that 
a  man  always  tells  his  sweetheart  all  the  dis- 
reputable side  of  his  family  history.  What  he 
forgets  to  tell  her  she  worms  out  of  him  after  they 
are  married.  It  may  be  so.  I  must  be  an  exception, 
then.  As  I  have  said,  Rosa  was  curious  about  Eng- 
land, and  in  trying  to  answer  her  questions  I  dis- 
covered I  didn't  know  very  much  about  England 
myself.  But  I  said  nothing  about  our  family  and 
their  poor  luck  with  their  women.  Perhaps  I 
divined  what  an  attractive  tale  my  successful 
brother's  escapades  would  seem  to  a  romantic  girl. 
There  was  a  dare-devil  glamour  about  everything  my 
brother  did  that  fascinates  some  minds.  Indeed,  it 
fascinated  mine.  But  I  was  cured  of  glamour.  My 
early  love  affair  had  left  me  a  feeling  of  panicky 
fear  of  romance.  Perhaps  there  is  Puritan  blood 
in  us;  but  I  feel  that  passion  in  itself  is  evil.  I 
wanted  no  more  of  it.    I  looked  forward  to  domes- 


246  ALIENS 

tic  life,  my  own  vine  and  fig  tree.  Some  day,  I 
dreamed,  I  might  write  another  little  book.  At 
night,  when  all  was  running  smooth,  I'd  put  down 
odds  and  ends  .  .  .  Some  day,  perhaps.  I  don't 
think  I  shall  fret,  though,  if  nothing  comes  of  it. 

"I  liked  my  new  job.  The  Callisto  was  a  much 
bigger  ship  than  the  Corydon,  and  more  modern. 
Certainly  cattle  are  very  impleasant  cargo,  and 
when  we  came  into  Genoa  Harbour  and  the  ship 
was  being  cleaned  up,  you  could  smell  her  clear 
away  to  the  Galleria  Mazzini!  But  at  sea,  on  the 
long  run  south  to  Buenos  Ayres,  it  was  none  so 
bad.  I  was  looking  forward  to  my  marriage,  you 
see.  I  was  saving  money  and  I  was  beginning  to 
forget  the  past.  It  is  easier  for  a  seaman  to  do 
that  than  for  anyone  ashore.  A  sailor's  past  is  all 
in  pieces,  so  to  speak.  He  can  drop  it  bit  by  bit. 
But  when  you  live  ashore  in  one  place,  your  past 
is  like  a  heavy  log  that  you're  tied  to  and  can't 
quit. 

"Anyway,  one  night  in  Buenos  Ayres,  when  I 
went  ashore  to  mail  a  letter  to  Rosa,  I  was  in  good 
spirits.  I  reflected  that,  after  all,  my  father's 
dreams  of  founding  a  family  were  not  necessarily 
impossible.  My  brother's  behaviour  had  nothing  to 
do  with  it.  I  was  going  to  marry  Rosa.  If  we  had 
children  they  would  have  a  chance.  But  just  as 
Rosa  would  not  hear  of  Italy,  so  I  was  resolved 
with  all  my  might  against  living  in  England.  My 
children  should  never  come  under  the  influence  of 
that  gentility  that  had  spoiled  our  early  lives.  For 
the  old  families  in  England  who  have  been  steeped 


ALIENS  247 

in  it  for  centuries,  for  men  like  Belvoir,  for  instance, 
I  dare  say  it  is  an  admirable  plan.  But  not  for  me 
nor  for  mine.  I  had  been  writing  about  it  to  Rosa 
and  I'd  put  at  the  bottom,  'America.'^* 

"Another  thing  I  wanted  to  do  ashore  was  to  call 
at  the  Sailors'  Home  and  see  if  they  could  give 
us  a  Mess-room  Steward.  The  young  fellow  who 
had  shipped  that  voyage  had  deserted.  They  are 
always  doing  it  in  the  Argentine.  Wages  are  very 
high  and  they  all  think  that  they  can  do  well  up 
country.  They  sign  on  just  to  get  their  passage 
free.  The  ship  was  in  Number  One  Dock,  loading 
grain,  and  I  walked  across  the  bridge,  up  San  Juan 
and  took  a  trolley  car  along  Balcarce  to  the  Plaza 
de  Mayo.  It  was  a  fine  evening  in  September, 
quite  cool  after  dark.  I  was  rather  pleased  with 
myself,  too.  The  boilers  had  opened  up  uncom- 
monly well;  the  Second  knew  his  work,  and  I  had 
nothing  to  do  but  keep  an  eye  on  things  in  general. 
I  posted  my  letter,  and  after  walking  up  and  down 
the  Avenida  de  Mayo  for  a  while,  went  down  to  the 
Parque  Colon  to  get  a  car  back.  The  trolleys  of 
Buenos  Ayres  are  a  bit  puzzling  to  a  stranger  be- 
cause the  routes  go  by  numbers.  I  knew  nothing 
about  the  car  I  wanted  except  that  it  had  the 
number  'Forty-eight'  on  the  bows. 

"The  Parque  Colon  is  a  large  place  running  paral- 
lel with  the  Number  Three  Dock,  full  of  big  trees, 
and  the  avenues  through  it  are  rather  dark.  Con- 
sidering how  close  it  is  to  the  busy  part  of  the 
city  it  is  lonely.  Men  have  been  found  on  the 
seats — dead!    I  daresay  you  have  heard  of  Buenos 


248  ALIENS 

Ayres.  Like  any  other  city  where  money  can  be 
made  quickly,  like  London,  like  New  York,  Buenos 
Ayres  is  full  of  crooks.  I  believe  they  do  their 
best  to  keep  the  place  clean,  but  at  that  time  it 
was  pretty  bad.  The  Skipper  warned  me  to  carry 
a  revolver  whenever  I  went  ashore.  Personally 
I'm  against  firearms.  You  generally  find,  after  a 
row,  that  the  dead  man  had  a  revolver  in  his  hand. 
Unarmed  strangers  are  not  often  touched. 

"Number  Forty-eight  was  a  long  while  coming. 
Car  after  car  came  down  the  steep  incline  of  Vic- 
toria and  turning  round  eastward  rumbled  off  along 
Paseo  Colon.  I  walked  a  few  steps  down  one  of 
the  dark  avenues  and  sat  down  on  a  seat  to  finish 
my  cigar.  It  was  like  walking  into  a  dark  room. 
I  could  hear  the  roar  of  the  city,  yet  at  the  same 
time  I  could  hear  some  local  sounds  plainly.  A 
musty  smell  came  up  on  the  breeze  from  the  river. 
Suddenly  I  heard  the  long  deep  note  of  a  steamer's 
whistle:  the  Mihanovich  Mail  Boat  leaving  for 
Monte  Video.  I  sat  there  quietly,  thinking  of 
nothing  in  particular,  just  glancing  up  now  and 
then  to  note  the  numbers  of  the  trolleys.  At  the 
sound  of  the  whistle,  though,  I  fell  to  thinking  of 
Mihanovich.  What  a  romance  that  man's  life 
must  have  been!  They  tell  me  that  about  forty 
years  ago  he'd  landed  in  that  place,  a  Russian 
Pole,  ignorant  of  the  language,  without  any  money 
or  friends,  a  low-down  beach-comber.  And  here  he 
was,  a  millionaire.  Every  tug  on  the  river  has  his 
big  M  on  the  funnel.  He  had  fleets  of  steamers, 
mines,  railways,  banks;  and  he  was  even  tender- 


ALIENS  249 

ing  for  the  contract  of  the  new  docks  the  city- 
wanted.  No  wonder  others  came  to  make  their 
fortunes.  No  gentihty  needed  to  make  him  suc- 
ceed. And  thinking  of  him,  somehow  I  began  to 
wonder  if  my  brother  might  not  make  good  out 
in  the  colonies  say,  some  distant  part  of  the  world. 
Some  time  before  this  my  uncle  had  told  me  that 
Frank  had  been  released.  Good  behaviour  had 
reduced  his  time  to  about  twenty  months.  Surely, 
if  he  started  in  some  place  where  they  didn't  ask 
too  many  questions  he  might  get  another  chance. 
And  I  hoped  so.  I  had  no  malice  against  him. 
He  was  one  of  those  who  can't  keep  their  nature 
down;  women  were  the  curse  of  him.  Well,  per- 
haps prison  had  changed  him.  My  uncle  had  said 
that  he  was  'changed,'  but  that  might  be  for  the 
worse.  And  just  when  the  old  chap  was  deciding 
to  pay  the  passage  out  to  New  Zealand — buy  him 
a  ticket  and  see  him  on  board — my  brother  had 
vanished  again. 

"Mind  you,  the  interest  I  took  in  the  matter 
was,  you  might  say,  purely  dispassionate.  I  turned 
the  case  of  my  brother  over  in  my  mind  as  you 
might  turn  over  the  problems  of  a  book  you  are 
half  through.  I'm  not  sure  that  at  the  moment 
when  I  was  interrupted  I  was  not  smiling  at  the 
insane  life  he  had  led.  For  me,  in  spite  of  my  sea- 
going business,  life  was  settled,  sedentary,  monot- 
onous. You  can  talk  if  you  like  of  the  romance  of 
the  sea,  you  may  call  it  picturesque,  but  you  can- 
not call  it  melodramatic.  Personally  I  dislike  melo- 
drama.    I   dislike  violent  passion   of  any  sort.     I 


250  ALIENS 

was  thinking  of  all  this  and,  as  I  say,  smiling,  when 
I  heard  tip-toes  behind  me,  and  before  I  could 
turn  round  I  felt  my  throat  held  between  two 
hands  and  my  head  pulled  sharp  over  the  back  of 
the  seat." 

Once  again  Mr.  Carville  paused,  opened  his  little 
brass  box  and  took  therefrom  his  piece  of  twist. 
With  meticulous  precision  he  pared  and  pared  the 
required  amount  for  his  pipe,  and  began  to  roll  it 
between  his  palms,  his  eyes  fixed  reflectively  upon 
the  geranium  tubs.  He  had  pushed  his  hat  back 
a  little,  and  above  his  steady  grey-blue  eyes  there 
shone  a  pink  unruffled  brow. 

"Once  or  twice  in  my  life,"  he  went  on,  "I  have 
had  a  severe  shock.  Let  me  explain  what  I  mean. 
A  man  brought  up  as  I  had  been,  in  a  genteel 
way,  gets  unaccustomed  to  physical  violence.  At 
school  fighting  was  barred  very  strictly.  In  the 
works  we  pupils  had  no  need  to  speak  to  the 
men  at  all.  The  first  time  I  was  ever  struck  was 
when  I  was  a  pupil.  One  of  the  apprentices  thought 
I  had  been  at  his  tools,  came  up  and  hit  me  a  ter- 
rific blow  on  the  chin.  To  anybody  used  to  fight- 
ing it  would  have  been  nothing.  It  made  me  ill 
for  a  week.  Of  course,  at  sea  I'd  grown  a  good  bit 
harder,  but  I'll  never  forget  the  first  time  a  fireman 
went  for  me.  There  was  always  with  me  a  feeling 
of  outrage  so  to  speak,  a  feeling  not  at  all  towards 
the  man  who  struck  me,  you  understand,  but  against 
myself,  against  a  world  that  had  made  me  what  I 
was,  soft  and  unskilled.  That  seems  to  me  a  pe- 
culiar weakness  in  our  genteel  civihzation.     You  go 


ALIENS  251 

along,  for  years  perhaps,  living  a  quiet,  orderly, 
intellectual  life,  protected  by  law,  by  the  Army 
and  Navy,  by  the  PoHce  and  by  all  'the  conven- 
tions of  good  society,'  and  then  suddenly  a  man 
comes  up  and  gives  you  a  punch  on  the  jaw!  A 
very  weak  place  in  our  civilization,  I  think? 

"And,  moreover,  it  brings  into  sharp  relief  another 
feature  of  our  civilized  life  and  that  is  our  impotence 
to  utilize  our  total  experience.  With  a  dog,  a  tiger, 
or  a  savage  at  the  moment  of  attack,  all  his  instincts, 
all  his  habits,  all  his  intuition  and  ingenuity  and 
physical  advantage  are  automatically  rushed  to  the 
front  and  flung  upon  the  enemy  in  the  most  effective 
way  possible.  But  the  civilized  man  is  *all  abroad.' 
His  glasses  fall  off  his  nose,  he  loses  his  balance  and 
his  breath,  he  flinches,  goes  blind  with  helpless  rage 
and  indignation,  and  is  held  in  contempt  by  the  very 
policeman  he  pays  to  take  the  job  off  his  hands 
and  lock  his  enemy  up.  It's  no  exaggeration  to  say 
that  some  of  us  lack  that  power  of  instantly  mar- 
shalling our  faculties,  maintaining  a  clear  view  and 
keeping  the  blood  out  of  our  eyes,  which  is  called 
'presence  of  mind.'  It  is  a  good  phrase,  that,  be- 
cause an  intellectual  person,  when  he  is  attacked 
with  sudden  violence,  hasn't  for  the  time  being  any 
mind  at  all.  He  is  just  a  heap  of  nerves,  a  com- 
pound of  puerile  passion  and  hysterical  protest. 

"It  seemed  to  me  that  my  throat  was  held  for  a 
long  time,  in  that  grip.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it  could 
not  have  been  more  than  a  couple  of  seconds.  But 
it  seemed  long.  It  seemed  to  me  as  though  the 
pressure,  which  was  choking  me  to  begin  with,  in- 


252  ALIENS 

creased  and  increased.  The  power  of  it  was  not 
like  the  power  of  a  machine,  but  evil,  personal, 
spiteful.  I  remember  I  shut  my  eyes.  I  remember 
hot  breath  on  my  face.  And  then  I  remember  a 
blank.  In  my  memory  it  is  like  a  space  between 
inverted  commas,  without  anything  written.  A 
blank.   .    .    . 

"My  head  had  slid  down  against  the  back  of  the 
seat,  my  knees  were  all  cigar-dust,  and  my  hat 
had  fallen  off,  when  I  opened  my  eyes.  I  heard 
someone  say,  *Sit  up,  for  God's  sake!'  and  I  tried 
to  do  as  I  was  told,  to  'sit  up  for  God's  sake.'  Some- 
body was  sitting  beside  me,  pulling  at  my  shoulder. 
Now  and  again  I  heard  him  say,  'You  damn  fool!' 
He  was  angry  with  me  then.  I  wondered  what  I'd 
done  to  make  anybody  angry.  I  tried  to  think. 
I'd  been  sitting  on  a  seat  in  the  Parque  Colon.  Very 
good.  Why  was  I  a  damn  fool?  I  decided  to  argue 
the  point  with  this  chap.  I  struggled  up  and  felt 
for  my  hat.  I  heard  him  say,  'Listen,  you  fool!' 
There  he  was  again.  Always  a  fool.  Then  he 
said,  'Well,  look  then,  if  you  can't  hear,'  and  he 
struck  a  match  and  held  it  before  his  face.    Humph! 

"He  pinched  the  match  between  his  fingers  and 
we  were  in  the  dark  again.  He  said,  'Well,  Charley, 
old  man,  that  was  a  near  squeak  for  you,  a  damn 
near  squeak.  What  the  devil  d'you  go  sitting  round 
a  place  like  this  for?' 

"I  remember  being  very  much  amused  at  this. 
He  was  actually  angry  with  me!  He  had  nearly 
choked  the  life  out  of  me,  and  he  was  angry  with 
me!     I  had  nothing  to  say.     My  tongue  seemed 


ALIENS  253 

glued  to  my  teeth.  I  brushed  my  hat  and  began 
to  look  for  my  cigar.  What  I  was  really  looking 
for  was  my  wits. 

"He  went  on  talking.  *  Charley/  he  says,  'I'm 
desperate.  I'm  down  and  out.  For  God's  sake 
give  me  some  money.''  What  are  you?'  he  says, 
'what  are  you  doing  here?  I  thought  you  were  a 
sailor.  You  look  prosperous.  Give  me — ^lend  me 
some  money,  or  I'll  have  to  take  it.' 

"While  he  went  on  like  this,  sometimes  threat- 
ening, sometimes  whining,  I  was  collecting  my  facul- 
ties. The  feeling  that  some  one  had  wrapped  copper 
wire  tight  round  my  neck  was  going  away.  I  found 
my  cigar.  I  struck  a  match,  and  by  the  Ught  of  it 
I  saw  my  brother  again. 

"Yes,  he  was  down  and  out.  He  had  not  had 
a  shave  for  a  week,  his  hat  had  been  picked  off  a 
rubbish-heap,  his  trousers  were  muddied  and  torn 
at  the  knees,  his  coat  was  buttoned  up  to  hide  his 
black,  hairy  chest.  He  had  no  shirt.  He  was  down 
and  out. 

"I  settled  in  my  mind  what  had  happened  before 
I  spoke.  This  brother  of  mine  had  apparently 
made  an  exception  in  my  favour.  He  had  crept 
up  behind  me  with  the  deliberate  intention  of 
strangling  me  and  picking  my  pocket.  Seeing  my 
face  he  had  decided  that  he  could  pick  my  pocket 
without  strangling  me. 

"The  curious  thing  was  that  I  had  no  feeling  of 
anger  towards  him.  What  filled  me  with  a  sort  of 
panic  was  the  fact  that  my  brother  had  come  back 
into  my  life.    I  hadn't  realized  it  so  plainly  before, 


254  ALIENS 

but  he  scared  me.  I  suppose  he  saw  something 
of  this  in.  my  face,  for  he  says,  *  Charley,  let  bygones 
be  bygones,  old  man.    Help  me  make  a  fresh  start!* 

"'Hold  on,'  I  said.  'The  last  time  I  saw  you, 
Frank,  you  had  bags  of  money.    You  had  my  place 

in  the  house .'     'Oh,  dry  up!'  he  says,  'never 

mind  what  I  had,  look  at  me  now.  Charley,  look  at 
me.  I've  walked  every  foot  of  the  way  from  Rosario. 
I'm  broke,  cleaned  out,  desperate.  I've  nothing  to 
lose.' 

"'You  never  had,'  I  told  him.  'What  do  you 
want  me  to  do?' 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  he  asked  me  for.'' 
Nothing  less  than  fifty  pounds.  He  seemed  to 
have  a  mania  for  fifty  pounds.  He  couldn't 
lower  himself,  even  in  that  state,  to  make  it  less. 
You  might  say  he  thought  in  fifties.  'Good  God, 
man!'  I  said,  'do  you  think  I'm  made  of  money .f^' 
'You  look  prosperous,  Charley.  Give  me  what  you 
have  and  I'll  take  the  rest  to-morrow.'  'I'll  do 
nothing  of  the  sort,'  I  said.  'Here's  my  car.'  And 
a  Number  Forty-eight  came  down  Victoria.  'Is  it?' 
says  he.  'It's  mine  too,  then,'  and  he  follows  me 
up  to  the  track. 

"When  I  had  sat  down  in  the  car  I  began  to 
think.  I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  Evidently  my 
brother  had  been  so  absorbed  in  his  own  life,  so 
indifferent  to  anything  that  had  happened  to  me, 
that  he  didn't  even  know  what  I  was.  That  didn't 
prevent  him  asking  nearly  three  months'  wages  of 
me,  though!  Now,  if  he  saw  me  go  down  to  the 
ship  he  would  never  let  me  alone.     He  sat  there 


ALIENS  255 

in  the  car  near  the  door,  his  hands  hanging  over  his 
knees,  his  head  bowed  to  hide  his  chest,  the  paper 
ticket  twisting  in  his  fingers.  That  my  brother! 
It  came  to  me  with  a  sudden  shock,  a  spasm,  that, 
as  usual,  right  was  on  his  side.  I  couldn't  leave 
him  Hke  that.  And  yet  what  could  I  do.^*  If  I 
gave  him  money  he  would  only  prey  on  me  again. 
Never  mind:  it  was  my  duty  to  aid  him.  When  the 
car  stopped  at  the  end  of  Paseo  Colon  I  had  made 
up  my  mind.  I  dropped  off  and  waited  in  the  dark 
shadow  of  the  buildings  opposite  the  Parque  Leyema. 
He  came  up  to  me.  I  could  see  his  lips  trembling 
and  his  hands  clutching.  'Charley,  don't  you  play 
me  false,  don't  you  play  me  false!  My  God,  Char- 
ley, I'll  kill  you — I'll  do  something  with  you,  if  you 
play  me  false.'  It  was  like  a  child  in  hysterics.  I 
didn't  realize  it  immediately,  but  that  was  just 
what  was  the  matter  with  my  brother — hysteria. 
'Easy,'  I  said,  'where  can  I  take  you?  I'm  not 
known  here.'  'Take!'  he  says,  'to  your  own  house, 
of  course.'  'Listen,'  I  said.  'Do  you  hear  what 
I  say?'  He  nodded.  'Well,'  I  went  on,  'I'm  the 
chief  engineer  of  a  steamer  in  yon  dock.  If  you 
come  down  with  me,  don't  forget  there's  a  sentry 
with  a  rifle  on  that  bridge  we've  got  to  cross,  there's 
two  more  patrolling  the  quay,  and  there's  another 
armed  watchman  on  board.  And,  Frank,'  I  added, 
'when  a  man  runs  here,  they  shoot.  They  find  out 
if  he  was  a  criminal  afterwards.  Understand?'  He 
looked  down  on  the  ground,  his  shoulders  moving 
in  a  sort  of  convulsion.    'Come  on,'  I  said. 

"He  followed  me  like  a  shadow  over  the  bridge. 


256  ALIENS 

along  the  quay  and  up  the  gangway.  The  watch- 
man saw  us  come  aboard,  but  otherwise  the  dock 
was  deserted.  My  room  was  on  the  starboard  side, 
the  second  door  in  the  alleyway.  I  looked  along 
and  down  in  the  engine-room.  The  Fourth  was 
down  below  reading  a  novel  on  the  bench  by  the 
dynamo.  All  the  rest  were  still  ashore — up  at  the 
Bier  Convent  or  the  Apollo,  I  suppose.  I  opened 
my  door  and  Frank  stepped  inside. 

*"Now,'  I  said,  shutting  the  ports,  'you're  safe.' 
"He  sat  sideways  on  the  settee,  shading  his  eyes 
with  his  hands.  Now  that  I  saw  him  in  the  cold 
glare  of  two  thirty-two  candle-power  lamps,  he  was 
awful.  I  took  off  my  coat  and  set  to  work.  From 
a  drawer  I  took  out  a  suit  of  underwear,  socks,  a 
suit  of  blue  dungarees,  a  flannel  shirt,  an  old  cap 
and  a  pair  of  bluchers.  I  rolled  these  up  in  a  big 
bath  towel  and  handed  them  to  Frank.  'Frank,' 
I  said,  'Hsten.'  He  nodded.  'See  this  key?  It 
fits  the  bath-room.  The  bath-room  is  the  last 
wooden  door  in  this  alleyway.  Go  down  there, 
open  the  door,  take  the  key  with  you,  lock  yourself 
in,  switch  on  the  light,  have  a  bath  from  head  to 
foot,  put  these  clothes  on,  roll  up  those  rags  in 
the  towel  and  bring  them  back.  If  you  meet  any- 
body take  no  notice,  act  as  if  you  belonged.  Here's 
some  soap.' 

"I  looked  up  and  down  the  alleyway — no  one 
there.  Up  and  down  outside  the  watchman  slouched 
on  the  iron  deck.  Down  below  was  the  drone  of 
the  dynamo  and  the  wheeze  and  whine  of  the  Weir 
pumps.     'Go  on,'  I  said.     'Mind,  the  last  wooden 


ALIENS  257 

door  on  the  right.  Don't  go  round  the  corner. 
Understand?'  He  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  and 
then  flitted  away  down  the  long  iron  tunnel.  I  saw 
him  poke  about  with  his  key,  his  body  all  crouched, 
the  white  bundle  sticking  out  behind  him.  And 
then  he  vanished,  and  the  door,  heavy  teak,  slammed. 
"I  went  into  the  mess-room  then,  to  get  some 
food.  The  steward  as  a  rule  left  supper  out  for  the 
juniors  on  duty,  but  as  our  young  fellow  had  de- 
serted I  had  to  get  the  joint  out  of  the  pantry  and 
carve  some  cold  meat  myself.  I  remember  won- 
dering what  the  Fourth  would  think  if  he  came  up 
and  found  the  Chief  nosing  round  the  provision 
locker.  There's  a  certain  dignity,  you  see,  that 
you  mustn't  lower  before  subordinates.  However, 
he  was  too  busy  reading  down  below.  I  got  a  big 
plate  of  sandwiches  and  a  slab  of  currant  cake  and 
went  back  to  my  room.  I  had  a  neat  little  ma- 
hogany dumb-waiter  near  the  settee  and  I  put  it  up 
and  covered  it  with  a  linen  towel.  I  spread  the 
grub  on  it,  and  alongside  of  it  I  put  a  flask  of  whisky 
and  a  syphon  of  soda.  I  got  quite  interested.  I 
had  no  idea  of  what  to  do  with  the  man  when  he 
was  washed  and  fed  and  clothed.  I  got  down  a 
box  of  cigars  and  set  them  alongside  of  the  whisky. 
After  all,  he  was  my  brother.  I  thought  of  the 
'lady  of  high  rank.'  If  she'd  seen  him  as  I  saw  him, 
she  would  have  been  satisfied.  What  would  Gladys 
think  of  him.''  It  may  have  been  wrong,  but  I  was 
rather  pleased  with  myself.  I  was  tickled  to  be 
able  to  help  my  brother.  I  knew  that  it  was  risky. 
I  had  no  right  to  bring  him  aboard.    I  sat  down  to 


258  ALIENS 

wait,  when  I  saw  that  I'd  forgotten  to  tie  up  my 
canary,  and  I  was  hunting  for  the  calico  I  used  at 
sea  when  the  door  opened  and  my  brother  came  in 
with  a  rush. 

"It  almost  seemed  as  though  soap  and  water 
had  had  a  magical  effect  on  him.  Literally,  he 
wasn't  the  same  man.  His  arms  and  legs  stuck 
out  of  the  dungarees,  his  hair  was  still  damp  and 
hung  between  his  eyes,  and  his  big  hooked  nose 
was  dark  red  with  towelling.  He  stood  there,  his 
hand  on  the  brass  knob,  looking  at  me  pinning  a 
piece  of  calico  round  my  canary. 

"He  looked  at  the  little  dumb-waiter  spread  for 
his  supper  and  passed  his  hand  over  his  face.  '  Char- 
ley,' he  says,  'I  must  have  a  shave  first.  The  pangs 
of  a  guilty  conscience,'  he  says,  'are  piffle  com- 
pared with  the  miseries  of  a  beard.  Have  you  a 
good  razor.'*' 

"I  had  in  my  room  a  fold-up  wash-stand  and 
shaving-glass.  I  opened  it  and  pointed  to  the 
razors.  'There's  no  hot  water,'  I  said.  'No  hot — 
Wliy,  Charley,  you  don't  expect  a  chap  to  shave 
in  cold,  do  you.?  Good  God,  man!' 

"I  give  him  credit  for  any  amount  of  admiration 
for  my  little  arrangements.  I  got  out  a  little  tripod 
spirit  lamp  with  a  copper-kettle  that  Rosa  had 
given  me;  he  was  delighted.  "Pon  my  soul,  Charley, 
you're  an  ingenious  devil!  Fancy  you  living  here 
all  so  snug  and  I  knowing  nothing  about  it!  Like 
Noah  in  his  Ark,  'pon  my  soul.'  When  he  began 
to  lather  he  kept  up  a  running  fire  of  remarks, 
mostly   insulting.      'And   what   are  you   here,   old 


ALIENS  259 

man?  Admiral?  Lord  High  Muck-a-Muck?  They 
put  you  up  a  jolly  sight  better  than  they  did  me 
in  the  second  cabin  of  that  infernal  liner  I  came 
over  in.  Heavens!  Old  Uncle  Christopher  wanted 
me  to  go  to  New  Zealand.  He  was  cracked  about 
New  Zealand;  dippy,  'pon  my  soul.  When  I  asked 
to  see  the  manager  of  the  affair,  you  know,  the 
Skipper,  they  showed  me  an  underbred  brass-bound 
official  called  a  Purser,  who  said  he'd  put  me  in 
irons  if  I  wasn't  civil.  Oh,  this  world  has  some 
bounders  in  it,  Charley,  my  boy.  What  do  you  get 
here,  Charley?  Pretty  good  screw,  I  suppose?'  And 
so  he  ran  on.  When  he  had  finished  spilliag  the 
talcum  powder  all  over  the  floor,  using  my  brushes 
for  his  hair,  he  turned  round  and  looked  over  the 
provisions. 

"'Frank,'  I  said,  *when  you've  had  something  to 
eat  and  drink,  I'll  have  a  talk  with  you.'  'With 
pleasure,  my  dear  chap,'  says  he.  'But  what  a 
meal!  Mutton  and  sandwiches,  cake  and  whisky. 
Is  this  your  usual  feed,  Charley,  may  I  ask?  No 
wonder  you  look  dyspeptic'  'We're  out  of  pheas- 
ant,' I  said.  He  looks  at  me  and  bursts  out  laughing. 
'Charley,  my  boy,  I  wonder  how  much  you  really 
will  stand.'  'I'll  tell  you  presently,'  I  said,  and 
went  on  smoking. 

"Dyspepsia  didn't  scare  him  much.  He  went 
across  my  dumb-waiter,  eating  every  crumb,  drink- 
ing every  drop  of  the  whisky  and  soda.  Then  he 
took  a  cigar,  snipped  it  in  his  big  teeth  and  held 
out  his  hand  for  a  match.  And  then — he  was 
sitting  on  my  red  olush  settee,  while  I  was  in  my 


260  ALIENS 

arm  chair — ^he  swung  his  feet  up  and  lay  back  on 
the  cushions,  puffing  the  smoke  up  in  great  clouds. 
'Quite  a  reader!'  he  says,  waving  his  cigar  towards 
my  book-case.  *You  were  always  a  chap  for  worm- 
ing.' 

"'Frank,'  I  said,  'we've  a  long  account  to  settle. 
Somehow  or  other  we've  always  been  antagonistic. 
Why?' 

'"How  do  you  mean.?' he  says. 

'"What  have  I  done  to  you,  that  you  should  be 
always  turning  up  and  queering  my  pitch.'*' 

*"0h,  you  mean  Gladys,'  he  says  laughing.  'No,' 
I  said,  'I  don't  mean  Gladys  particularly.  I  mean 
everything.  Every  time  we  come  together  you  do 
me  a  bad  turn.' 

"'How  can  I  do  you  a  bad  turn  now?'  he  in- 
quires blandly.  *I  don't  know,'  I  said,  'I  don't 
know.' 

"'I  can  tell  you  how  you  can  do  me  a  good  turn, 
old  man,'  he  says,  sitting  up.  'Can't  you  get  me  a 
billet,  here?    Just  to  get  home,  you  know.' 

"'We  don't  go  home,'  I  said.  'We're  on  a  time 
charter  between  here  and  Genoa.'  'Oh,  that'll  do,' 
he  says.    'I  can  go  home  from  there  easily  enough.' 

'"I  can  give  you  a  fireman's  job,'  I  said,  'or  a 
greaser's.' 

"'A  greaser's!'  he  says,  his  eyes  sparkling  at  me. 

'You  say  that  to  me,  Charley '    'Easy,'  I  said, 

*if  you  shout  you'll  have  some  one  in  here.  All  the 
jobs  I  can  give  you  are  inferior.  You  have  no 
rating  on  a  ship,  Frank.  I've  had  to  work  five 
years  or  more  for  this  job.     Your  automobile  en- 


ALIENS  261 

gineering  is  no  use  to  you  here,  you  know.    You're 
down  and  out,  you  said  just  now.' 

"'Yes/  he  said,  'that's  a  fact.  I  must  be  humble 
and  take  anything.  Anything,  Charley.'  'Well,'  I 
said,  *I  can  give  you  a  light  easy  job  as  steward 
here  for  the  engineers.  If  you  hustle  round  you 
can  pick  it  up.  You'll  have  to  swallow  all  your 
pride,  you  know,  as  I  did  when  I  came  to  sea.  You'll 
have  to  make  beds,  tidy  up  the  rooms,  lay  the  table, 
wash  dishes.  Will  you  do  it?  The  last  one  has  just 
deserted.  I  was  going  to  get  one  to-night  if  I  hadn't 
met  you.' 

"He  lay  on  the  settee  a  long  while,  smoking  and 
looking  angrily  at  the  books  in  the  case. 

"'Mind,'  I  said,  'this  is  on  condition  that  in 
Genoa  you  clear  out  and  leave  me  in  peace.  It's 
on  condition  you  sign  on  under  an  assumed  name. 
I've  a  position  here.  If  it  was  known — you  under- 
stand. I'm  the  chief  engineer  and  it  might  cause 
trouble.* 

"'Charley,'  he  says  at  last,  'you're  a  good  chap 
and  I'm  a  rotter.  I'm  a  bad  egg,  a  rolling  stone, 
flotsam,  garbage,  punk,  anything  you  like  that 
smells  to  heaven.  I  hate  myself  sometimes.  It's 
hate  of  myself  that  makes  me  desperate.  But, 
give  me  this  chance.  Perhaps  a  sea-voyage  will 
brace  me  up.  Genoa,  you  say?  They  speak  French 
there,  don't  they?' 

"'No,'  I  said,  'they  speak  Genoese.'  I  couldn't 
help  being  a  Httle  sarcastic  about  that.  'But  you'll 
find  they  speak  English  at  Cook's  office.' 

"He  looked  at  me  for  a  while,  his  big  eyes  blink- 


262  ALIENS 

ing  through  the  smoke.  He  was  thinking,  I  sup- 
pose. There's  no  doubt  he  has  a  remarkably  active 
mind.  I  could  feel  he  was  taking  in  the  situation. 
Suddenly  he  put  his  arms  up  and  stretched,  his  feet 
crushing  against  the  end  of  the  settee. 

'"Charley,  my  boy,'  says  he,  'I'll  winter  in  Italy, 
that's  what  I'll  do.  It'll  be  a  change  after  Rosario,' 
he  says. 

"*You  can  do  as  you  please,'  I  told  him,  'when 
you're  paid  off.'     'Until  then,  you'll  have  to  do 
what  the  Second  Engineer  tells  you.    Understand?' 
[.  '"Oh,  yes,  Charley,  I'll  be  as  humble  as  dirt,'  he 
says. 

"Well,  he  was.  I  sent  him  ashore  with  a  few 
Argentine  dollars  to  get  a  bed  for  the  night,  and 
the  next  morning  he  comes  down  to  the  ship,  as 
meek  as  milk,  and  asks  the  Second  for  a  job.  I'd 
told  the  Second  about  him,  saying  he's  been  recom- 
mended to  me  by  people  ashore  and  so  on.  I  can't 
say  I  was  very  sanguine  about  the  experiment. 
About  the  time  in  port  I  mean.  At  sea  I  had  no 
fears.  I  knew  that  the  discipline  of  the  sea  would 
be  more  than  a  match  for  any  brother  of  mine. 

"I  began  to  wonder,  as  the  days  went  on,  what 
had  become  of  the  man  who  had  sprung  up  and 
nearly  strangled  me  that  night.  It  almost  seemed 
as  though  there  was  some  mistake,  as  though  my 
brother  had  vanished  into  the  night  and  some  other 
beach  comber,  with  a  big  nose  and  dark  eyes,  had 
applied  for  the  job.  Never  by  any  sign  did  he 
let  on  that  he  had  seen  me  before.  When  I  took 
him  to  the  cabin  for   the  Skipper  to  sign  him  on 


ALIENS  263 

he  gave  the  name  of  Frank  Freshwater,  without 
batting  an  eyelid  you  might  say.  When  he'd  gone 
out  again  the  old  man  says  to  me,  'Looks  as  though 
he'd  been  a  gentleman,  years  ago.'  I  said  I  be- 
lieved that  was  the  case,  which  was  the  reason 
folks  ashore  wanted  to  help  him.  *Ah,'  says  he, 
blotting  the  articles,  'I'll  expect  he'll  run  off  before 
we  sail.  Chief.  These  gentlemen  are  slippery  cus- 
tomers.' 

"My  brother  didn't  run  off.  He  soon  got  into 
the  way  of  doing  the  work  of  Mess-room  Steward. 
It  was  wonderful  acting.  'More  tea,  Frank,'  I'd 
say,  and  he'd  jump  for  my  cup — 'Yes  sir,  yes  sir.' 
It  got  on  my  mind.  Sometimes  when  I  was  sitting 
in  my  room  smoking  and  reading,  I  would  hear  him 
behind  me  setting  something  straight,  making  the 
bed  perhaps,  filling  the  water  bottles,  or  cleaning 
the  brass-work  on  the  door.  He'd  never  speak 
to  me  unless  spoken  to.  If  I  said,  'Frank,  how  are 
you  getting  on.?'  he'd  say,  'Very  well,  thanks,'  and 
go  out.  I  would  sit  there,  wondering  what  had  got 
hold  of  him.    Was  he  pulling  my  leg? 

"And  at  sea  it  was  just  the  same.  I  expected  a 
change  at  sea.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  In  a  way,  you  know, 
it's  a  lonely  life  I  had  at  sea.  It  must  be,  on  a  ship 
where  there's  brass-edging  and  rigid  discipline.  The 
Skipper  would  take  his  walk  up  and  down  the  bridge 
deck,  and  I  would  take  mine  up  and  down  the 
awning-deck  aft.  And  having  the  curious  thing 
locked  up  in  my  breast,  so  to  speak,  it  got  on  my 
mind.  It  sounds  strange,  but  I  began  to  wish  my 
brother  would   speak  to   me.     I   began   to  recall 


264  ALIENS 

how,  when  he  was  a  little  chap  with  loug  brown 
curls,  he  would  bawl  and  storm  because  his  bricks 
fell  down.  After  all,  we  were  brothers,  eh?  This 
politeness  of  his  was  too  glaring.  I  felt  that  if 
he  were  to  drop  in  in  the  evening,  after  eight  bells 
say,  I  would  let  discipline  sUde  enough  to  have 
a  chat.  But  no!  It  was  he  who  stood  on  his  dig- 
nity. He  would  stand  there  at  meals,  watchful  of 
my  slightest  want,  watchful  of  everybody's  wants, 
never  saying  a  word,  rigid  as  a  statue.  When  his 
work  was  done  he'd  disappear  into  his  own  room, 
which  he  shared  with  the  Second  Cabin  Steward  in 
the  port  alleyway,  and  I  wouldn't  see  him  again 
until  seven  bells  in  the  morning,  when  he'd  come 
in  with  my  tea,  open  the  wash-basin,  draw  the 
water,  set  the  towel,  light  the  spirit-lamp,  lay  out 
my  razors  and  say,  'Twenty  past  seven,  sir.'  Me, 
his  brother! 

"It  gave  me  an  insight,  more  than  anything  else 
could  have  done,  into  my  brother's  character.  I 
saw  that  his  failure  was  not  due  to  weakness,  but 
to  strength.  He  went  his  own  road.  He  had  his 
own  morality,  his  own  code.  Indeed,  he  almost 
convinced  me  that  perhaps  for  him.  Good  and  Evil 
didn't  exist.  I  used  to  wonder  what  he  was  think- 
ing about  while  he  stood  waiting  on  us,  listening  to 
our  engine-room  gossip,  our  talk  of  ships  and  the 
sea.  Most  of  it  must  have  been  Greek  to  him,  of 
course.  If  I  stole  a  look  at  him,  he  would  glance 
round  the  table,  as  though  I  had  asked  for  some- 
thing.   It  got  on  my  mind. 

"And  a  better  mess-man  never  stepped,  they  said. 


ALIENS  265 

Nothing  was  too  much  trouble.  The  Second,  a  very 
typical  man,  without  much  imagination  as  far  as  I 
could  detect,  quite  startled  me  by  saying,  with  his 
eyes  wide  open  and  a  curious,  proud  expression  on 
his  face,  that  in  his  opinion,  if  the  truth  were  known, 
*our  new  mess-man'  was  a  lord.  What  amused  me 
was  I  never  could  get  out  of  him  what  made  him 
think  so.  I  said,  'Go  on  with  you.  You  wouldn't 
know  a  lord  if  you  fell  over  one.'  *0h,  wouldn't  I?' 
he  said,  turning  sulky.  I  laughed.  It  just  showed 
you  what  a  tremendous  power  my  brother  had  over 
people.  And  as  the  days  went  by,  stories  came  up 
from  various  quarters,  fabulous  stories  of  'that  new 
mess-man.'  They  came  up  and  went  down  again, 
and  then  came  up  again  more  fabulous  than  ever. 
He  knew  what  he  was  doing  perfectly  well,  and  he 
showed  a  remarkable  insight  into  the  silly,  cred- 
ulous nature  of  seamen  by  the  way  his  adventures 
were  coloured.  He  never  told  me  anything  beyond 
that  he'd  had  a  fierce  time.  The  legends  were 
legends.  The  second  cabin  steward,  who  roomed 
with  him,  and  a  couple  of  impressionable  appren- 
tices, were  forever  bringing  up  new  variations  of 
the  doings  of  'that  new  mess-man.'  They  told  a 
tale  of  how  he  had  run  through  a  fortune  in  no 
time  and  had  been  compelled  to  run  away  from  his 
creditors.  How.'^  Oh,  horses,  you  know,  Newmarket 
and  Epsom,  supper  parties,  going  everywhere  first 
class,  cigars  .  .  .  champagne  .  .  .  and  so  on. 
The  second  cook  told  the  pantry-man  'that  new 
mess-man'  was  a  marvel  on  the  mandolin;  had 
been  in  an  operatic  orchestra  .    .    .  studied  abroad. 


266  ALIENS 

Where?  Oh,  on  the  Contment.  And  the  old  man 
himself  heard  a  fantastic  yam  from  somewhere  or 
other  and  handed  it  on  to  me,  that  'your  new  mess- 
man'  had  been  in  the  diplomatic  service  and  had 
been  broken  '  on  account  of  a  woman '  at  one  of  these 
here  embassies.  *No!'  I  said.  'Oh,  quite  likely,' 
says  the  Old  Man,  though  I  doubt  if  he  knew  any 
more  of  embassies  than  of  metaphysics.  The  story 
gave  an  aristocratic  sort  of  tinge  to  the  ship,  I  sup- 
pose. As  I  say,  I  didn't  know  what  had  been  hap- 
pening in  my  brother's  life  of  late  and  I  had  no 
great  desire  to  know.  Whatever  he  had  done  did 
not  prevent  him  looking  after  his  work.  The  Sec- 
ond was  quite  disturbed  over  the  indefatigable  way 
'that  new  mess-man'  tidied  up  his  room.  It  was 
what  the  newspapers  call  'an  Augean  task,'  for  the 
Second  was  not  very  neat  in  his  habits.  Boots, 
matches,  cigarette-ends,  pieces  of  waste,  dirty  boiler- 
suits and  torn  newspapers  and  magazines  all  over 
the  floor.  He  never  would  put  away  his  shore- 
clothes  until  we'd  been  at  sea  a  week  or  two,  and  he 
kept  a  good  many  small  tools  under  his  mattress. 
Sailor  fashion,  you  know.  He  had  an  electric  fan, 
which  for  want  of  screws  had  tumbled  into  his 
wash-basin  and  cracked  it.  'That  new  mess-man* 
had  taken  the  fan  away  and  jiggered  with  it  until  it 
ran  as  sweet  as  ever,  and  he'd  got  some  cement  and 
fixed  the  basin,  and  made  a  fine  job  of  it!  This  was 
the  Second  telling  me  all  about  it.  And  he  thought 
this  paragon  was  a  lord.  He  seemed  to  think  a  lord 
was  an  ingenious  kind  of  plumber. 

"Of  course,  as  I've  tried  to  explain  to  you  shore 


ALIENS  267 

folks,  I  stood  too  far  above  the  common  gossip  of 
the  ship  to  hear  everything.  Only  now  and  again 
I  was  made  to  realize  that  my  brother  was  still  the 
same  fascinating  illusionist.  It  is  a  great  gift. 
Don't  think  I'm  not  appreciative  of  it.  Indeed,  I 
envied  him  his  power  of  mixing,  as  they  say,  his 
knack  of  'setting  the  table  in  a  roar.'  A  great  gift! 
Once,  coming  along  past  the  galley,  where  he  was 
talking  to  a  little  crowd  of  cooks  and  scullions  and 
cattlemen,  I  saw  the  bent  heads,  the  eager,  sparkling 
eyes,  the  parted  lips,  hanging  expectantly  on  his 
every  word.  And,  when  the  joke  came,  the  quick 
rush  of  breath,  the  slapping  of  thighs,  the  explosions 
of  laughter,  the  barks  of  the  cattlemen  and  the  high 
windy  cackle  of  the  young  fellows.  Gift.^^  It  is  one 
of  the  gifts  of  the  gods,  I  think.  And  one  night, 
coming  down  the  port  alley-way  from  the  chief 
mate's  room,  I  passed  my  brother's  quarters.  There 
was  a  ragged  curtain  across  the  door-way,  and  as 
I  passed  in  my  rubber-soled  shoes  I  caught  a  glimpse 
through  a  rent  in  the  fabric.  Three  young  chaps, 
the  second-cabin  steward  and  the  two  apprentices, 
were  sitting  on  the  settee,  their  eyes  rapt,  their 
mouths  open.  The  Third  Mate,  an  officer,  of  all  the 
people  in  the  world,  was  leaning  against  the  wash- 
stand,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  eyes  fixed  in  the 
same  attentive  way.  I  moved  a  little  and  saw  my 
brother  on  the  drawer-tops,  smoking  a  cigarette,  his 
eyes  cast  down,  speaking  in  a  low  voice.  As  I 
watched  he  raised  his  eyes  and  gesticulated,  smiling 
and  shrugging  his  shoulders.  And  the  audience 
nodded  and  smiled  too.    He  was  taking  them  along 


ms  ALIENS 

with  him.  He  was  telling  them  a  story,  the  oldest 
trick  in  the  world.  I  realized  with  a  start  that  I 
had  no  business  there,  and  went  along  and  round 
to  my  own  room.  But  I  envied  him,  for  with  all  his 
waywardness  he  had  the  gift  of  gifts.  He  could 
charm  the  hearts  of  men  and  women,  and  hold  them 
with  his  words. 

*'As  we  came  up  the  Gulf  of  Lyons  I  was  thinking 
of  seeing  Rosa  again,  and  so  perhaps  I  gave  less 
attention  to  Frank.  But  just  as  usual,  the  morning 
we  arrived,  as  I  was  sitting  in  my  room  about  five 
o'clock,  waiting  for  the  stand-by  gong,  he  came 
in  with  coffee  and  toast.  'I  suppose  you're  for 
the  beach  now,  Frank,'  I  said.  'Oh  yes,'  he  says, 
*as  soon  as  I'm  paid  off!'  'You've  done  a  damn 
sight  better  than  I  expected,'  I  said,  and  then  I 
stopped  because  he  was  looking  at  me  in  a  peculiar 
way.  He  drew  the  bunk-curtains  close,  shifted  the 
mat  straight  and  went  out. 

"  I  was  busy  for  a  good  while  down  below  after  we 
were  tied  up,  for  the  Second  was  scared  of  a  bad 
place  in  one  of  the  furnaces.  When  I  came  up 
and  sent  the  Third  to  call  Frank,  he  came  back 
and  said  he'd  cleared  out.  *Went  ashore  with  the 
Old  Man,  sir.'  Well,  I  thought,  he'll  be  down  to 
say  good-bye,  I  suppose.  I  turned  in,  so  as  to  be 
fresh  in  the  evening  for  Rosa. 

"It  was  a  beautiful  night  at  the  end  of  October. 
Genoa  is  always  beautiful  to  my  mind,  but  that 
evening  she  was  la  Superba,  as  the  citizens  love  to 
call  her.  Right  round  the  bay  the  harbour  lights 
twinkled,  and  above  them  the  lights  of  the  city 


ALIENS  269 

seemed  like  a  necklace  of  diamonds,  hung  against 
the  night.  As  the  boatman  rowed  me  ashore  I  felt 
satisfied  with  myself.  I  was  going  to  see  my  girl, 
and  if  I  thought  of  my  brother  at  all — well,  I'd 
done  the  right  thing  by  him.  I  wished  him  well.  I 
intended,  since  he  had  made  good,  to  give  him  some 
money  to  get  home  to  England  in  comfort,  if  he 
wanted  to  go.    Yes,  I  was  very  pleased  that  night. 

"It  wasn't  long  before  Rosa  and  I  were  in  the 
trolley  car  that  runs  along  the  Via  Milano  up  to  the 
Piazza  de  Ferrari,  where  all  the  cafes  and  theatres 
are.  I  bought  tickets  for  the  Verdi  and  then  we 
went  to  Schlitz's,  a  big  German  restaurant  in  the 
Via  Venti  Settembre.  I  like  restaurants,  you  know. 
Old  Sam  Johnson  wasn't  so  far  out  when  he  voted 
for  a  tavern.  That's  one  thing  this  country  can't 
either  import  or  invent — a  tavern.  They  have  the 
same  name;  every  public  house  is  called  a  cafe;  but 
what  are  they.''    Simply  pubs. 

"We  were  coming  up  the  Via  Venti  Settembre 
again  to  the  Verdi,  under  those  arches,  when  I 
saw  my  brother.  He  was  standing  by  a  little  table 
set  out  by  the  kerb  where  an  old  woman  was  selling 
lottery-tickets.  It  used  to  be  as  much  to  the  Ital- 
ians as  horse-racing  is  with  English  people.  The 
evening  papers  had  the  winning  numbers  in  the 
stop-press  column.  I  saw  my  brother  put  down  a 
bill,  and  the  old  woman  gave  him  a  bunch  of  tickets. 
And  then  he  looked  up  and  saw  us. 

"I  ran  right  into  trouble,  you  know,  this  time. 
Somehow  or  other,  I'd  forgotten  Rosa.  I  didn't 
simply  not  try  to  avoid  him,  I  waited  for  him  to 


270  ALIENS 

come  up.  It  seemed  only  the  right  and  proper 
thing.  He  came  up,  lifting  his  cap.  He'd  bought 
a  suit  of  clothes  and  a  pair  of  those  long-toed 
foreign  boots,  but  he  still  had  the  old  cap  I'd  given 
him.  Those  clothes  fitted  him  well,  I  remember, 
but  he  was  a  well-made  man  and  easy  to  fit.  The 
coat  had  a  waist  to  it,  and  he  was  a  fine  figure  of  a 
man  as  he  came  up. 

"I  got  a  sort  of  panic  at  the  moment  he  spoke. 
'I'll  see  you  to-morrow.  I'll  see  you  to-morrow,' 
I  said,  and  tried  to  draw  Rosa  away.  She  looked 
at  me  in  surprise.  *Who  is  it.'*'  she  asked  me  in 
Italian.  *Never  mind,'  I  said.  *Come  away.'  *I'1I 
see  you  to-morrow.' 

"'Why,  Charley!'  he  says.  'You  aren't  going 
away  without  introducing  me,  surely.' 

"I  was  in  a  cleft  stick.  All  of  a  sudden  the  mem- 
ory of  what  he  had  done  with  Gladys  had  rushed 
over  me.  I  pulled  Rosa  away.  'To-morrow,'  I 
kept  saying  to  Frank.  'See  you  to-morrow.'  He 
didn't  understand,  apparently;  kept  up  with  us,  his 
lottery  tickets  in  his  hand,  trying  to  look  into  Rosa's 
face,  and  she  hanging  back  looking  at  him.  In  this 
way  we  came  up  to  the  Verdi  doors,  and  I  started 
to  go  in. 

"Women  are  obstinate  sometimes.  Rosa  kept 
looking  at  him  as  he  walked  beside  her,  and  before 
we  were  inside  the  vestibule  he  had  explained  that 
it  was  strange  I  wouldn't  introduce  him,  seeing 
we  were  brothers.  She  looked  at  me.  I  couldn't 
deny  he  was  my  brother.  All  I  could  do  was  to 
say,  'Go  away,  Frank,  go  away!'     But  he  didn't 


ALIENS  271 

go  away.  He  stood  beside  us  in  the  crowd  in  the 
vestibule  looking  down  at  us,  laughing,  and  talking, 
absolutely  at  his  ease.  As  usual  he  was  putting 
me  in  wrong  before  some  one  I  knew.  'Why,'  he 
says,  'even  that  silly  blue-nosed  old  bounder  of  a 
captain  of  yours  has  given  me  a  good  character. 
Come  on,  Charley,  be  a  sport.  Ton  my  soul,  Charley, 
I  never  knew  you  were  much  of  a  man  with  the 
girls.  Sly  old  dog,  eh.'*  Going  to  sea  all  this  time 
and  spotting  all  the  hot-house  fruit,  eh.'*' 

"'Frank,'  I  said,  'this  lady  is  my  future  wife.' 

"He  fell  away  from  us  in  his  surprise,  looked 
from  Rosa  to  me  and  back  again,  quick,  like  a  bird, 
and  then  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"My  brother  Frank  is  one  of  those  men  who 
simply  cannot  believe  in  women.  They  honestly 
do  not  beheve  a  virtuous  woman  exists.  They 
strike  you  as  vicious  and  coarse,  these  men,  just 
when  they  are  trying  to  be  most  charming.  To  my 
brother  women  were  hot-house  fruit.  You  can't 
blame  such  men  altogether,  because  women  them  - 
selves  foster  the  idea.  They  act  more  like  lunatics 
than  sane  people.  Their  heads  are  turned.  No, 
you  can't  blame  the  men  entirely. 

"My  brother  was  perfectly  sincere  when  he  burst 
out  laughing  at  me.  He  didn't  beheve  me  for  a 
minute.  The  idea  of  my  *  walking-out '  with  a 
young  lady  in  Genoa  was  comic.  It  was  of  a  piece 
with  all  the  rest  of  my  damn  foolishness.  I  never 
attempted  to  explain  my  feelings  to  him,  and  I 
don't  suppose  he  understands  to  this  day  the  ter- 
rible pain  his  laugh  gave  me.     You  can  realize, 


272  ALIENS 

when  I'd  been  known  to  Rosa  so  long,  that  it  would. 

"My  brother,  somewhat  to  my  surprise,  left  it  at 
that.  He  threw  up  his  hands,  still  holding  the 
lottery-tickets,  and  turned  away.  We  went  into 
the  theatre,  and  when  we  were  fixed  in  the  poltrone, 
seats  where  you  can  have  a  little  table  brought  to 
you  for  the  drinks  and  ices,  I  was  able  to  explain 
something  of  my  brother's  record  to  Rosa.  Every 
thing..!  told  her  about  him  interested  her.  Com- 
pared with  my  own  history  it  was  a  story  of  adventure 
indeed.  She  would  ask  questions  to  lead  me  on. 
'What  did  he  do  then?'  When  I  told  her  simply 
that  I'd  met  him  'down  and  out'  at  Buenos  Ayres, 
she  was  so  sorry.  The  mere  trifling  fact  that  he'd 
robbed  one  woman  and  swindled  half-a-dozen  others 
didn't  matter.  Of  course,  I  couldn't  tell  her  the 
details  of  Gladys'  story — he  had  me  there!  And  I 
wouldn't  lower  myseK  to  speak  of  how  he  tried  to 
choke  me.  After  all,  I  believe  that  was  a  mistake. 
He  wouldn't  do  that  to  me  knowingly.  So  that 
you  see,  when  you  come  to  look  at  the  tale  I  told 
Rosa,  what  wasn't  downright  pathetic  and  unfor- 
tunate was  romantic  and  daring.  Rosa  was  a  quiet 
girl.  We  didn't  quarrel  over  the  matter,  but  I 
could  see  she  was  thinking  of  my  brother,  a  fine 
figure  of  a  man,  by  the  way. 

"I  am  quite  sure  now,  after  all  these  years,  that 
it  was  what  we  would  call  just  a  passing  interest. 
All  women  have  their  sudden  romantic  likings  for 
strange  men  who  catch  their  imaginations.  I  re- 
member taking  tea  one  afternoon  in  the  house  of  a 
friend  on  Clapham  Common.    His  sister,  a  middle- 


ALIENS  273 

aged  woman,  and  a  friend  of  hers,  middle-aged  too, 
entertained  me  until  my  friend  came  in.  These 
two  women,  fat  and  forty,  could  talk  of  nothing 
else  for  some  time  but  a  wonderfully  nice  'bus- 
conductor  they  had  spoken  to  coming  back  from 
Richmond.  'Oh,  he  was  such  a  nice  man!'  they 
said,  and  then  they'd  look  at  each  other.  I  was 
younger  then  and  slightly  scandalized.  Women  are 
queer.  I  suppose  in  a  week  they'd  forgotten  his 
very  existence;  but  at  the  time,  *0h,  he  was  a  nice 
man!'  So  it  was  with  Rosa.  Frank  had  filled  her 
imagination,  as  he  always  did;  but  if  she  had  not 
seen  him  again  it  would  have  passed  like  a  mist. 

"I  don't  blame  her,  nor  even  Frank,  now.  It 
was  a  tragical  accident,  and  very  nearly  wrecked 
my  happiness.  You  may  say  I  ought  to  have  left 
him  in  Buenos  Ayres.  I  thought  so  at  one  time; 
but  I  beheve  now  it  would  have  made  no  difference. 
We  were  bound  to  meet  some  day.    It  was  fate. 

"I  saw  Rosa  home  and  went  back  to  the  ship. 
The  Old  Man  was  going  aboard  just  as  I  came  to  the 
gangway  and  asked  me  to  go  down  and  have  a 
drink  in  his  room.  He  was  very  excited  about 
some  lottery-tickets  he  had  bought.  Skippers  and 
chiefs  go  in  for  these  things  a  good  deal.  One 
captain  in  that  employ  won  a  cool  ten  thousand 
dollars  in  Bahia  Blanca.  It  was  the  thing  to  do. 
Up  in  the  agent's  office  the  clerks  would  talk  over 
the  lottery  drawings,  and  each  skipper  would  be 
anxious  to  do  the  same  as  the  others — ^you  see? 
Well,  my  Old  Man  had  bought  fifty  tickets.  He 
was  full  of   a  system  by  which  he  picked  them. 


274  ALIENS 

Every  third  one,  then  every  third  one  again.  A 
mad  idea!  I  thought  of  my  brother  waving  his 
bunch,  thought  of  his  picking  them  up  without 
even  looking  at  the  numbers.  I  said  to  the  Old 
Man,  *Cap'n,  you  haven't  a  single  good  number.  I 
expect  the  man  who's  got  the  lucky  one  is  up  in 
the  city  now.'  'Why,  how  do  you  know.'^'  he  said, 
passing  the  soda.  'I  just  feel  it,'  I  said.  He  was 
worried  about  that.  Gamblers  have  the  most  pe- 
culiar notions. 

"Well,  he  sent  the  third  mate  ashore  just  before 
tea  to  get  the  Sera.  'Come  on.  Chief,'  says  he, 
coming  into  my  room  where  I  was  washing,  'let's 
go  through  the  numbers.  I'm  just  crazy  to  prove 
you  wrong.'  'WTiere  did  you  buy  them.'*'  I  asked. 
'Outside  the  Verdi*  he  told  me.  We  went  through 
them.  I  read  out  the  numbers  of  his  tickets  while 
he  compared  them  with  those  in  the  paper.  His 
highest  number  was  some  two  hundred  thousand, 
two  hundred  and  fifty-one,  I  remember.  And  the 
last  winning  number  in  the  paper  was  that  same 
number  of  thousands,  two  hundred  and  fifty-two. 
He  dashed  the  paper  on  the  floor.  'Darn!'  he  says, 
'  why  didn't  I  take  one  more.  Think  o'  that.  Chief ! ' 
W^hat  was  the  use  of  thinking  of  it.^^  'I'm  not  sur- 
prised,' I  said,  'though  it  is  aggravating.'    Humph! 

"Half  way  down  that  splendid  new  street,  one 
of  the  finest  in  Europe,  the  Via  Venti  Settembre, 
and  not  far  from  Schlitz's  Restaurant,  is  Bertolini's 
Bristol  Hotel.  Rosa  and  I  were  walking  down  past 
it  that  night,  on  our  way  to  Acquasole,  where  there 
was  a  band,  when  Frank  came  out.    A  cab  stood  at 


ALIENS  275 

the  kerb,  and  he  was  making  for  it  wh«i  he  saw  us 
and  bore  down  on  us.  He  was  dazzling.  He  had 
a  big  ulster  and  he  was  in  evening  dress.  *Now, 
Charlie,  my  boy,  this  is  the  hmit.  I  was  coming 
to  see  you.  Come  and  dine  with  me  at  the  RomaJ' 
and  he  dragged  us  to  the  cab. 

"Yes,  his  luck  was  back.  He*d  picked  up  the 
winning  number,  the  one  the  Old  Man  had  left. 
Ten  thousand  francs!  He  wasn't  going  to  wait 
for  the  State  to  shell  out.  He  just  went  to  the 
Russian  Bank  in  the  Piazza  Campetto  and  dis- 
counted the  ticket  for  cash.  In  one  flash  he'd 
won  more  than  I  earned  in  a  couple  of  years.  Yes, 
he  was  going  to  winter  in  Italy,  he  said.  Naples, 
Rome,  Florence,  Bologna,  Venice;  then  Paris  and 
London.  Before  I  knew  what  I  was  doing  I  was 
standing  outside  of  the  Roma  watching  him  help 
Rosa  out  of  the  cab.  He  carried  things  with  a 
rush.  Nothing  too  good  for  him.  This  was  his 
natural  element,  luxury,  excitement,  whiz  and  snap. 
What  a  man! 

"Again,  I  say,  I  don't  blame  Rosa.  What  girl 
wouldn't  be  fascinated  by  such  a  man.?  I  had  never 
realized  before  how  charming  a  man  could  be.  What 
had  I  to  offer  a  woman  to  compare  with  him.?  In 
a  few  hours  he  had  picked  up  enough  Italian  to 
patter  with.  Rosa  spoke  English,  it  is  true,  but 
what  jokes  he  got  out  of  his  Italian!  How  he 
talked!  There  was  I,  just  as  I  am  now,  blue  serge 
and  rather  a  plain  little  man,  nothing  special  any- 
way. I  was  forgotten.  The  waiters  took  no  more 
notice  of  me  than  if  I'd  been  a  portmanteau.    And 


276  ALIENS 

yet  in  the  bank  I  had  much  more  money  than 
Frank.  Ah!  but  he  was  flashing  it.  Didn't  they 
run! 

"I  tried  to  have  it  out  with  Rosa  as  we  went 
down  to  the  Via  Milano  that  night.  Perhaps  I  was 
unreasonable.  Perhaps  I  showed  jealousy — a  foolish 
thing  to  do.  We  parted  rather  cross  with  each 
other.  You  see,  I'd  never  spent  money  like  water 
on  her.    I  was  saving  to  have  a  home. 

"I  had  rather  a  hard  day  following.  The  boilers 
had  to  be  gone  through,  and  that's  a  job  I  never 
leave  to  the  Second.  The  boilers  are  the  vitals  of 
a  ship.  I  don't  care  what  happens  in  the  engine- 
room  so  long  as  my  boilers  are  all  right.  And  so  I 
was  a  bit  late  getting  away  at  night.  I  went  along 
to  Rebecca's.  Rosa  was  serving  in  the  cafe,  and 
I  began  to  grumble  to  Rebecca.  I  told  her  that 
if  necessary  I  would  pay  for  some  one  else  to  do 
that  work  until  we  were  married.  Not  that  the 
chaps  annoyed  Rosa  now  that  she  was  engaged, 
but  I  didn't  like  the  idea  of  it.  Rebecca  said  Rosa 
was  doing  it  of  her  own  accord.  She  said  she  didn't 
know  what  had  come  over  the  girl.  Rosa  came 
upstairs,  and  when  I  told  her  not  to  go  into  the 
cafe,  she  said  she'd  do  as  she  liked.  She  said  she 
didn't  want  to  go  out  that  evening;  would  rather 
stay  at  home.    We  had  words   .    .    . 

"I  left  in  a  huff,  I  suppose,  and  went  back  to  the 
ship.  I  felt  badly  used.  The  Old  Man  came  along 
to  my  room  and  spent  a  couple  of  hours  telling  me 
how  that  new  mess-man  had  won  ten  thousand 
francs.     There  were  all  sorts  of  frills  to  the  story 


ALIENS  277 

as  he  knew  it.  One  of  the  clerks  at  the  agent's 
had  told  him  that  the  man  was  an  English  milord. 
That  was  a  bit  of  my  brother's  cleverness.  He  had 
registered  at  the  Bristol  as  Francis  Lord.  Of  course, 
the  papers  had  made  the  most  of  it. 

"For  two  days  I  never  went  ashore.  I  was  an- 
noyed at  Rosa.  You  know,  these  little  tiffs  are 
inevitable,  though  I  must  say  we'd  managed  with- 
out them  up  to  this.  I  said  to  myself  that  when 
she  wanted  me  again  she  could  have  me.  The 
mood  lasted  two  days.  I  began  to  get  anxious.  I 
couldn't  rest.  After  all,  we  were  engaged.  The 
ship  went  home  for  survey  next  voyage,  it  was 
rumoured,  and  I  had  promised  Rosa  we  should  go 
together.  I  put  on  my  shore-clothes  and  went 
up  to  Rebecca's.  I  went  in  to  have  a  drink  first, 
intending  to  go  round  to  the  private  door  after- 
wards. Just  as  I  sat  down  Rebecca  came  in  and 
saw  me.  She  beckoned  me  to  come  inside.  We 
went  upstairs.  'What's  the  matter.?' I  said.  'Rosa!' 
says  Rebecca.  'She  went  out  this  evening  to  meet 
you,  she  said,  and  she's  not  back  yet.' 

"For  a  moment  I  couldn't  quite  see  the  drift. 
Perhaps  I'm  slow.  But  then  I  realized  what  might 
have  happened.  I  took  my  hat  and  ran  downstairs. 
Outside  a  carriage  was  crawling  past.  I  jumped 
into  it  and  told  the  man  to  drive  all  he  knew  to  the 
Bristol.  It's  a  stiff  climb,  but  those  two  horses 
tore  along  the  Principe ^  past  the  station,  through 
Piazza  Caricamento,  up  Via  Lorenzo^  full  tilt.  I 
jumped  out  and  ran  into  the  hotel  and  asked  for 
the  manager.     I  described  my  brother  as  well  as  I 


278  ALIENS 

could.  *Yes,  yes/  lie  said,  'that  would  be  Signore 
Lord*  He  had  just  paid  his  bill  and  gone.  He 
was  to  get  the  Twenty-fifteen  for  Milan.  The 
commissionaire  said  the  Signore  Lord  had  driven 
to  the  Bngnole  station,  though  he  had  been  advised 
to  go  to  the  Principe,  where  he  could  get  a  better 
seat.  I  gave  the  man  a  franc  and  bolted  out  again. 
*Stazione  Brignole/  I  told  the  man,  and  away  we 
went.  The  'Twenty-fifteen'  would  be  there  in 
about  ten  minutes.  Five  minutes  later  I  was  in 
the  dreary,  half -lighted,  bare-looking  waiting-room. 
There  was  only  one  person  in  sight.    It  was  Rosa." 

Mr.  Carville  paused  and  raised  his  head.  We 
became  aware  of  some  one  calling.  I  turned  and 
beheld  Mrs.  Carville  standing,  her  hands  on  her 
hips,  at  her  door.  She  was  calling  to  her  husband 
in  a  clear,  strong,  vibrant  voice.  With  a  slight 
shrug,  he  rose. 

"Si,  si,  Rosa/'  he  replied  equably,  and  then  to 
us  he  smiled  and,  raising  his  hat,  set  it  well  over 
his  eyes.    He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Gee!"  he  said,  "I  must  be  off.  I'll  have  to 
finish  the  yarn  another  time.    Good  day  to  you." 

Looking  down  at  his  boots  for  a  moment  re- 
flectively, and  pocketing  his  pipe,  he  stepped  down 
and  walked  sedately  towards  his  house. 


CHAPTER  X 

Another  Letter  from  Wigborough 

FOR  a  few  moments  we  sat  still,  oblivious  of 
the  flight  of  time.  The  afternoon  sun  threw 
long  shadows  across  the  road.  Mrs.  Weders- 
len  flew  past  in  her  automobile,  inclining  her 
haughty  southern  head  as  she  sat,  erect  and  dom- 
inant, behind  the  steering-wheel.  The  rumble  of 
the  trolley-cars  came  up  on  the  still  air  from  the 
valley.  My  friend  and  I  looked  at  each  other  and 
knocked  out  our  pipes. 

I  do  not  think  that,  had  we  been  left  to  ourselves, 
we  would  have  broken  the  silence  for  a  long  time. 
Mr.  Carville's  retreat  had  been  so  sudden  that  we 
could  scarcely  realize  he  was  gone,  that  we  might 
not  see  him  again  for  perhaps  two  months.  Time 
was  needed,  moreover,  for  us  to  adjust  our  feelings 
towards  him,  to  comprehend  fully  the  peculiar 
circumstances  that,  while  we  had  been  listening 
to  the  story  of  Rosa,  she  herself  had  been  in  the 
next  house.  We  had  to  connect  the  Genoese  maiden 
with  the  reserved  and  taciturn  neighbour  who  had 
given  us  food  for  so  many  conjectures.  Nor  would 
our  resentment  against  Mr.  Carville,  for  breaking 
off  so  abruptly,  have  taken  the  form  of  speech  all 
at  once.  We  were  too  dazed.  We  wanted  to  think. 
We  would  not,  I  say,  have  broken  the  silence  for  a 
long  time  ourselves.  But  Miss  Fraenkel's  tempera- 
ment was  different,  and  in  this  case  surprising. 

279 


280  ALIENS 

With  Miss  Fraenkel  silent  thought,  I  imagine,  is 
not  a  habit.  With  her  to  think  is  to  speak.  The 
effervescent  enthusiasm  of  her  nature  makes  speech 
indispensable.  I  do  not  believe  that,  during  the 
two-and-a-half-hour  recital  of  Mr.  Carville,  Miss 
Fraenkel  had  any  coherent  thoughts.  More  than 
any  other  women  the  American  woman  avoids  the 
cooler  levels  of  intellectual  judgment.  In  one 
moment  she  stands,  nude  of  the  commonest  knowl- 
edge of  a  person  or  a  thing.  In  a  moment  more, 
and  she  appears  before  your  astonished  eyes,  pa- 
noplied in  all  the  glittering  harness  of  a  glowing 
conviction.  Minerva-like,  her  opinions  and  beliefs 
spring  full-armed  from  the  head  and  front  of  her 
great  Jove  Intuition.  Logic,  says  the  ancient 
platitude,  hangs  by  the  end  of  a  philosopher's 
beard;  and  an  American  woman  would  as  soon 
grow  hair  on  her  face  as  admit  reason  to  her  soul. 
Therein,  doubtless,  lies  her  charm,  her  artless  al- 
lurements, her  enigmatic  manner,  her  astonishing 
success. 

Something  of  this  was  apparent  in  Miss  Fraenkel 
as  she  leaned  out  of  the  window  and  met  our  gaze 
with  delighted  eyes. 

"Isn't  he  just  won-der-ful?"  she  exclaimed. 

"You  enjoyed  it.?"  I  asked. 

"Oh  sure!  But  Hsten.  I've  got  a  plan.  Why 
can't  you  two  make  it  into  a  book.f*  It  'ud  be  per- 
fectly lovely!  You  know,  Mr.  Legge,  you're  quite 
an  artist,  aren't  you?  And  Mr.  Pedderick  here, 
he  does  some  WTiting.  Oh  I'm  sure  you  could  do 
it!     You    know  ..."      Miss    Fraenkel    made    a 


ALIENS  281 

pause  luminous  with  bright  glances,  "a  picture  of 
those  two,  in  the  cafe  having  a  dinner;  a  real  kissing 
picture.    I'm  sure  she  would  look  so  sweet!" 

"Ah!"  said  Bill,  "but  what's  the  end  of  the 
story?" 

"Why  sure!"  faltered  Miss  Fraenkel.  "They 
get — get  married!  That's  the  end  of  every  English 
story,  isn't  it?  " 

Bill    cackled    from    the    kitchen,    artlessly    and 

shrill.     " and  lived  happy  ever  after!"  added 

Miss  Fraenkel,  with  radiant  unwinking  hazel  eyes. 

She  went  away  after  tea,  to  her  pew  in  the  gaunt 
wooden  Episcopal  Church  in  Chestnut  Street,  rapt 
in  a  felicitous  dream  of  romanticism.  It  was  noth- 
ing to  her  that  Mr.  Carville  had  poured  diluted 
vitriol  upon  some  women  who  clamoured  for  the 
vote,  nothing  that  he  had  barely  deigned  to  notice 
her  existence.  Once  aware  that  he  essayed  to  be  a 
spell-binder,  she  accepted  him  with  utter  abandon  in 
that  r61e.  She  permitted  him  to  bind  the  spell; 
and  as  she  walked  with  short  quick  steps  along 
Van  Diemen's  Avenue,  her  brown  head  held  high 
and  unswerving,  I  could  not  refrain  from  the  fancy 
that  she  moved  as  one  in  a  trance. 

It  was  a  disappointment  to  us  that  we  heard  the 
whistle  of  the  five  o'clock  train  before  we  realized 
that  Mr.  Carville  was  on  board.  The  sound  was 
the  one  thing  needful  to  set  our  mind  and  tongues 
free  to  talk  of  him.  So  potent  had  been  his  atmos- 
phere that,  to  be  honest,  we  had  been  unable  to  ap- 
ply judgment  to  his  case.  When  we  gathered  at 
dinner  the  discussion  was  in  full  and  amiable  swing. 


282  ALIENS 

"It  is  very  difficult,"  I  said,  "to  distinguish  the 
fact  from  the  fiction,  not  because  he  is  extraordi- 
narily skilful  in  'joining  his  flats,'  but  because  he  is 
so  absorbed  in  the  story  himself  that  it  would  be 
quite  inconceivable  to  him  that  anyone  would  not 
be  interested.  He  has  evidently  never  imagined 
such  a  contingency.  Such  ingeniousness  is  more 
than  uncommon.    It  is  sublime." 

"How  about  your  theory  that  he  is  an  artist.^*" 
argued  Mac.  "He  can't  be  both  conscious  and 
unconscious  of  his  art." 

"Yes,  he  can,"  I  replied.  "All  great  artists  are. 
Mind,  I  don't  pretend  that  IVIr.  Carville  is  a  great 
artist.  I  merely  state  the  fact  that  he  has  one  of 
their  attributes.  I  account  for  it  this  way.  We 
have  here  a  man  of  undeniable  powers  but  limited 
ambition.  At  certain  periods  in  his  life  he  has 
been  crossed  by  his  remarkable  brother,  a  man 
whom  we  now  know  to  have  not  only  brain-power, 
but  will-power.  This  brother  has  impressed  him- 
self upon  our  neighbour's  imagination.  You  no-, 
ticed  almost  admiration  in  his  voice  at  times  as 
he  spoke  of  his  brother.'^  It  has  been  his  whim, 
therefore,  to  accentuate  as  much  as  possible  the 
difference  between  them.  He  has,  moreover,  cul- 
tivated the  habit  of  reticence.  Thrown  by  his 
profession  among  men  of  shrewd  wit  but  imperfect 
delicacy  of  mind,  he  has  kept  himself  to  himself. 
In  the  course  of  years  it  has  been  almost  necessary 
for  him  to  speak.  I  can  imagine  him,  a  man  of 
quick  perceptions,  and  no  mean  gift  of  expression, 
finding  silence  becoming  an  agony.    Much  brooding 


ALIENS  283 

has  bitten  the  real  and  fanciful  details  of  his  life 
into  his  mind.  He  has,  quite  by  accident,  dis- 
covered in  us  a  singularly  acceptable  audience. 
Without  conscious  premeditation  he  has  told  us  his 
story.  Every  narrator  of  the  most  trivial  incident 
can  induce  you  to  listen  for  something  naive  and 
individual  in  his  utterance.  Most  of  us  disperse 
this  quality  over  our  days.  Mr.  Carville  has  se- 
creted it,  distilled  it  to  a  quintessence,  and  the 
result  is — well,  something  in  his  tone  and  manner 
quite  unusual." 

"Yes,  that's  all  right  enough,"  assented  Mac, 
"but  I  still  don't  quite  see  how  his  brother  couples- 
up  with  that  chap  Cecil  wrote  about." 

"Well,  I  don't  either,"  I  replied,  "but  you  must 
remember  that  Mr.  Carville  has  told  us  so  far  only 
of  the  past.  In  his  narrative  he  is  not  married. 
That  must  be  at  least  eight  years  ago,  a  long  time 
in  the  life  of  a  man  like  his  brother." 

"I'll  write  to  Cecil,"  said  Bill  suddenly,  with  one 
of  her  flashes.    "Wouldn't  that  be  a  good  plan?" 

"Excellent!"  I  exclaimed.  "We  ought  to  have 
thought  of  that  before.  He  will  be  tremendously 
interested." 

This  was  a  true  prophecy.  Some  three  weeks 
later,  on  a  day  in  the  middle  of  November,  we 
received  a  bulky  letter  with  a  Wigborough  post- 
mark on  a  two-cent  stamp.  The  excess,  I  recall, 
was  nine  cents,  gladly  paid  by  me  while  Bill  was 
tearing  off  the  end  of  the  envelope. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  scanning  the  sheets  quickly, 
"it  seems  to  be.    Here " 


284  ALIENS 

We  adjourned  to  the  studio.  Mac  seated  him- 
self before  a  half-finished  cover  for  the  Christmas 
Number  of  Payne's  Monthly,  Bill  took  up  a  leather 
collar-bag  destined  to  be  Cecil's  Yule-tide  present, 
and  I  began  to  read. 

"High  Wigborough,  Essex. 

"My  Dear  Bill, — Many  thanks  for  your  jolly 
letter.  I  write  at  once  to  tell  you  how  awfully 
interested  I  am  in  what  you  tell  me.  It  really  is  a 
most  extraordinary  thing,  though,  as  you  know,  it 
often  happens.  On  the  very  day  your  letter  ar- 
rived I  met  Carville  again!  Without  any  warning 
I  heard  the  chuff-chuff  of  a  motor  in  the  lane,  and 
saw  him  walking  up  to  the  door.  I  asked  him  in, 
of  course.  He  sniffed  and  coughed  a  good  bit, 
because  I  was  biting  a  big  plate,  and  the  fumes 
are  pretty  thick  even  with  nitric  acid.  He  wanted 
to  know  all  about  what  I  was  doing.  Of  course 
I  explained,  asked  him  to  sit  down  and  have  a 
drink,  and  for  a  time  we  got  on  very  well.  I  said 
I  supposed  he  was  touring,  and  he  remarked: 
i,    "'Oh,  no.    I'm  living  down  here  just  at  present.* 

"'What,  broke  again?'  I  asked  laughing.  He 
looked  at  me  in  that  fiery  damn-your-eyes  way  of 
his  and  then  joined  in  the  laugh.  'No,'  he  said, 
'experimenting,    I've  taken  up  flying.' 

"He  said  it  just  as  you  might  say,  'I've  taken 
up  tennis.'  He  gives  you  the  impression  that  if 
he  remarked  that  he  had  taken  up  cathedral- 
building  or  unicorn-breeding,  you  would  believe 
him.    A  most  remarkable  man! 


ALIENS  285 

"I  said,  *0h,  I've  heard  something  about  your 
people,  I  beheve,  Carville,'  and  took  up  your  let- 
ter. He  put  his  whisky  down  on  the  floor  (he  was 
sitting  in  my  low  window  seat)  and  glared  at  me. 
'At  least,'  I  said,  funking,  you  know,  *I  see  it's 
the  same  name.'  And  I  went  on  to  tell  him  how 
I'd  been  so  impressed  with  my  first  adventure 
with  him  that  I'd  written  to  you  about  it.  He 
held  out  his  hand  for  the  letter.  I  just  sat  and 
watched  him.  He  read  the  whole  thing  rapidly, 
his  eyes  going  back  again  and  again  to  some  parts 
of  it;  and  then  he  gave  it  back  to  me. 

"*So  that's  where  he  is,  eh?'  he  said,  and  smiled. 
He  took  out  a  pocket-book  and  made  a  note  of  the 
address. 

"'Who,' I  said. 

"*  Charley,  dear  old  Charley,'  he  said,  *I  haven't 
seen  him  or  heard  from  him  for  years.' 

"'Then  it  is  your  brother.?'  I  asked.    He  nodded. 

"*He  always  was  a  bit  of  a  duffer,'  he  said. 
'What's  N.  J..?'  he  asked  suddenly. 

"'New  Jersey,'  I  rephed,  'in  the  United  States.' 

"'Oh,'  said  he,  'I  thought  it  meant  New  Jerusa- 
lem.   It  would  be  like  Charley.' 

"He  shut  up  his  pocket-book  and  said  no  more 
about  it.  Cool,  eh?  I  wanted  to  ask  him  no  end 
of  questions  about  his  past  life,  but  didn't  care  to. 
He  was  ready  enough  to  talk  of  his  experiments 
though,  and  asked  me  to  go  over  to  Mersea  Island 
to  see  his  shop.  'Thanks,  I  will  some  time,'  I 
said.  'Come  now!'  he  rapped  out,  and  that  was 
what  I  did.    Took  the  plates  out,  washed  my  hands. 


286  ALIENS 

and  scarcely  remembered  to  stopper  the  acid-bottle. 
Away  we  went,  tooling  through  Peldon  at  about 
seventy  miles  an  hour.  He  is  certainly  a  superb 
driver.  Down  our  lane  that  big  car  of  his  brushed 
the  hedge  both  sides,  but  he  never  slackened  at  all, 
either  in  his  speed  or  his  conversation.  He  had 
several  wealthy  people  interested,  he  said,  and  he 
was  going  to  do  something  really  big  in  the  flying 
line.  We  were  nearly  flying  at  the  time.  Of  course, 
there  aren't  many  people  about  this  part  of  Essex, 
but  it  really  was  risky.  He  said  this  London-to- 
Paris  and  London-to-Manchester  business  was  all 
*tosh,'  he  was  going  to  beat  that  easily.  We 
crossed  Mersea  Island,  turned  in  at  a  five-barred 
gate,  and  rushed  up  a  hundred-yard  plank-road 
that  he  had  put  down. 

"It  is  a  curious  place  he  has  there.  A  big  shed 
of  creosote-boards  and  felt  roof,  in  the  shape  of  a 
letter  L,  and  at  the  side  a  small  lean-to  affair  where 
he  lives.  One  leg  of  the  L  is  a  workshop  with  an 
oil-engine  to  drive  it;  the  other  is  for  his  plane,  and 
opens  at  the  end  on  the  plank-road.  As  we  came 
up  a  tall  ch&p  in  a  yellow  leather  suit  all  smeared 
with  oil  came  out  and  I  was  introduced  to  his  friend 
D'Aubigne.  Can  you  believe  it,  old  girl — D'Aubigne 
and  I  were  in  Paris  together!  He  had  a  thing  in  the 
Salon  the  same  year  as  I  did,  but  having  money 
he  chucked  Art  and  went  in  for  motoring.  We 
knew  each  other  at  once.  It  shows  you  what  a 
small  and  sectional  thing  fame  is,  for  while  he  had 
never  heard  of  me,  I  was  equally  ignorant  of  his 
tremendous  importance  as  an  authority  on  aerial 


ALIENS  287 

statics.  Never  heard  of  aerial  statics  before,  for 
that  matter!  Carville  seemed  quite  pleased  I  knew 
D'Aubigne,  and  showed  no  hesitation  in  turning  me 
over  to  him. 

"Well,  I  went  all  over  and  it  was  really  very 
interesting.       The    position     seems     to     be     this. 
D'Aubigne  has  tons  of  ideas  and  patents  and  can 
make  no  end  of  improvements  in  aeroplanes,  but 
he  has  no  nerve.    Several  times,  he  told  me,  he  had 
had  narrow  squeaks.     Now  Carville,  so  D'Aubigne 
says,  has  a  head  like  a  gyrbscope.    He  doesn't  know 
what  fear  is.     Seeing  what  I  had  of  him,  I  can 
quite  believe  it.     So  having  met  some  years  ago 
in  Venice  (D'Aubigne  seemed  frightfully  amused  at 
something    that    had    happened    in    Venice)    when 
Carville  suddenly  found  himself  able  to  command  a 
large  capital,  he  had  D'Aubigne  over,  and  between 
them  they  are  going  to  boom  a  new  long-distance 
machine.     D'Aubigne's   admiration  of  Carville  al- 
most amounts  to  worship.     He  told  me  that  when 
Carville  went  over  his  place  at  Avranches,  he  spent 
about  ten  minutes  looking  over  a  monoplane,  and 
then  climbed  into  the  seat.     'Set  it  away,'  he  said. 
D'Aubigne  was  perplexed.     'This  won't  carry  two,' 
he  argued.     'No,'  said  Carville,  'I'm  going  to  try 
it  by  myself.     Set  it  away.'     I  have  told  you  how 
domineering  he  is.     D'Aubigne  started  the  engine, 
and,  so  he  says,  crossed  himself.     Carville  was  off, 
and  in  another  minute  he  wa,s  heading  for  St.  Malo. 
D'Aubigne  says  some  of  his  volplanes  were  agon- 
izing to  watch.     When  he  turned  he  went  out  over 
the  sea,  but  it  seems  this  was  not  because  he  was 


288  ALIENS 

afraid  of  falling,  but  because  he  wanted  to  get  a 
nearer  view  of  a  steam  yacht  riding  off  Granville. 
He  came  down  on  the  shingle  and  smashed  the 
thing  badly,  but  he  was  busy  studying  the  wreck 
when  they  came  up  to  him.  It  never  occurred  to 
Carville  to  cross  himself.  D'Aubigne  is  a  big  yel- 
low-haired Norman,  and  his  eyes  fairly  goggle 
when  he  gets  going  on  Carville.  Personally  I  be- 
lieve they've  both  been  bad  eggs  in  then-  time. 
When  I  spoke  to  him  of  your  letter  he  pulled  down 
the  corners  of  his  mouth  and  wrinkled  his  nose. 
*Ah!'  he  said.  'It's  quite  possible.  Many  things 
happen  to  men  like  Carville.  You  know  he  was  in 
the  war  with  the  Boers.'*'  I  said,  no  I  didn't,  and 
he  told  me  that  Carville  had  rushed  to  South  Africa, 
just  as  thousands  of  others  had  done.  He,  how- 
ever, had  the  devil's  own  luck;  saved  an  oflScer's 
life,  a  man  in  the  Imperial  Yeomanry,  named 
Cholme.  Cholme  was  a  pal  of  Belvoir's  at  Charter- 
house. It  seems  Cholme  gave  Carville  a  letter  to 
Lord  Cholme,  in  case  anything  happened,  you 
know.  Something  did  happen  and  Cholme  was 
killed  at  Spion  Kop.  Carville  never  got  a  scratch. 
When  he  came  home  he  took  the  letter  to  Lord 
Cholme,  and  the  old  chap  told  him  to  ask  what 
he  liked.  The  old  man  is  a  pretty  rough  employer 
(he  owns  The  Morning),  but  he  had  a  royal  way 
with  his  son.  Carville  said  he  didn't  want  any- 
thing, but  might  have  a  favour  to  ask  some  day. 
Well,  it  seems  it  was  an  interview  with  Cholme 
that  he  was  after  when  I  met  him  in  Huntmgdon- 
shire,  but  he  has  his  own  ideas  of  the  way  to  do 


ALIENS  289 

these  things.  He  approached  Lord  Choline,  not 
with  a  begging-letter,  but  with  a  proposal  to  finance 
this  aeroplane  scheme.  Cholme  jumped  at  it, 
D'Aubigne  says. 

"We  were  standing  in  the  workshop  watching  a 
young  chap  fitting  a  piece  of  a  new  engine,  when 
we  heard  the  roar  of  the  aeroplane.  Carville  had 
started  his  engine  before  opening  the  doors.  It 
was  deafening.  We  got  outside  just  in  time  to 
see  him  leave  the  ground.  He  made  straight  for 
the  sea.  D'Aubigne  says  he  always  does  make 
straight  for  the  sea.  He  may  come  back  from 
over  Dengie  Flats  or  St.  Osyth,  but  he  always 
makes  for  Gunfleet  and  Kentish  Kiiock  Lightship 
at  first. 

"D'Aubigne  went  into  the  drawing-office  where 
he  works  out  his  calculations  and  all  that,  and  he 
got  out  a  flask  of  Benedictine.  Over  this,  he  told 
me  some  rather  startling  things  about  Carville. 
D'Aubigne  knows  nothing  about  the  girl  you  say 
is  called  Rosa,  but  in  addition  to  a  dozen  other 
more  shadowy  creatures,  he  says  there  is  a  Gladys 
not  far  off,  a  thin  girl  of  about  thirty.  Of  course, 
D'Aubigne  is  a  Frenchman  and  takes  the  French 
view,  but  it  certainly  seems  to  be  a  fact  that  Car- 
ville makes  a  hobby  of  women. 

"Since  then  I  have  seen  him  frequently.  Some- 
times he  and  D'Aubigne  come  over  to  tea  with  me, 
and  if  I  would  let  them  they  would  take  me  for 
long  spins  across  England.  They  work  in  spurts, 
and  then  shut  the  place  up  for  a  day  and  tear  round 
the  country.     Once  I  heard  the  roar  of  a  car,  and 


290  ALIENS  ^ 

looked  out  in  time  to  see  Carville  rush  past,  and 
there  was  undoubtedly  a  girl  with  him.  Once,  too, 
I  saw  him  in  the  air,  far  away  over  Layer  Marney, 
going  towards  Colchester.  D'Aubigne  says  their 
machine  will  be  ready  soon.  As  far  as  I  can  make 
out,  whatever  they  do,  The  Morning  is  to  have 
exclusive  information. 

"Do  you  know,  it  suddenly  struck  me  that  an 
aeroplane  lends  itself  extraordinarily  well  to  etch- 
ing? Carville  missed  the  plank-road  one  day  in 
landing,  and  I  saw  the  machine  lying  with  a  list 
in  the  field  near  a  rick.  I  made  some  notes,  and 
when  it  is  finished  I'll  pull  a  proof  and  send  it  to 
you.  I  fancy  it  will  be  rather  good.  In  the  clear 
transparent  afternoon  light  of  a  late  October  day, 
with  the  rick  behind  it,  the  great  vans  sprawled 
out  over  the  hedge,  the  corrugations  of  the  engine, 

the  thin  lines Do  you  see  it.f^     I  think  very 

highly  of  it.  An  aeroplane  has  a  personality,  like 
Carville. 

"Well,  now  you  must  send  me  news  of  your 
side.  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  what  he  is  going  to 
do,  but  D'Aubigne  says  that  is  a  secret.  One  thing 
he  has  told  me,  and  that  is  that  they  are  going  to 
fit  the  machine  with  a  wireless  telephone  so  that 
he  can  talk  to  The  Morning  oflfice  while  he  is  flying. 
Wonders  will  never  cease! 

"I  like  Mac's  colour  prints.  The  effect  of  the 
sky  over  the  steamer  is  quite  topping.  Where 
painting  in  oil  on  a  copper  plate  seems  to  fail  is  in 
the  detail.  The  colour  spreads  so.  The  red  port 
light  of  the  vessel  is  much  too  large.     However,  I 


ALIENS  291 

shall  certainly  spoil  some  paper  trying  to  out-do 
Mac. 

"Kind  regards  to  all.     Write  soon, 

"Yours  ever, 

"Cecil." 

As  I  folded  up  the  sheets  and  thrust  them  into 
the  envelope,  Mac  looked  across  at  me.  Seeing 
that  I  had  no  inkling  of  his  thought  he  remarked 
with  some  shght  irritation: 

"Wonder  when  the  deuce  that  chap's  coming 
back?" 

"Where's  he  gone?"  asked  Bill,  holding  up  the 
collar  bag  to  see  the  effect. 

We  did  not  even  know  that. 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "Mediterranean,  I  suppose." 

To  us  the  Mediterranean  is  a  far-off  beautiful 
dream.  We  sat  trying  to  visualize  for  ourselves 
the  incredible  fate  of  visiting  the  Mediterranean  as 
we  might  take  the  cars  for  Broadway.  I  heard 
Bill  sigh  softly.  Mac's  voice,  when  he  spoke,  was 
gruff. 

"I'd  ask  the  kids  if  I  were  you,"  he  said. 

"I  can  do  that,"  I  agreed  dreamily. 

Sometimes,  it  must  be  admitted,  we  get  homesick. 
It  generally  happens  when  we  have  letters  from 
home.  We  felt  rather  keenly  then,  the  shrewd 
poignancy  of  Mr.  Carville's  description  of  himself 
as  an  alien.  But  to  us  it  implied  a  subdued  if 
passionate  desire  to  see  again  the  quiet  landscape 
of  England.  The  painter-cousin's  sketch  of  the 
aeroplane  near  a  rick,  sunk  in  the  ditch  by  a  hedge, 


292  ALIENS 

in  the  clear  transparent  afternoon  light  of  late 
October,  appealed  to  us.  To  see  a  quickset  hedge 
again   ...   we  sighed. 

No  doubt  we  would  have  allowed  the  daily  flow 
and  return  of  life's  business  to  oust  our  neighbours' 
fortunes  from  our  minds,  and  waited  patiently  for 
Mr.  Carville's  reappearance,  had  not  a  most  ex- 
citing game  of  cow-boys,  a  game  in  which  I  for  the 
nonce  was  a  fleeing  Indian  brave,  led  to  an  abrupt 
encounter  with  Mrs.  Carville.  Benvenuto  Cellini's 
scalp  already  hung  at  my  girdle,  visible  as  a  pocket- 
handkerchief;  and  he  lay  far  down  near  the  cab- 
bages, to  the  imaginative  eye  a  writhing  and  dis- 
gusting spectacle.  The  intrepid  Giuseppe  Mazzini, 
however,  had  thrown  his  lariat  about  me  with  no 
mean  adroitness,  and  I  was  down  and  captured. 
This  thrilling  denouement  was  enacted  near  the 
repaired  fence,  and  any  horror  I  may  have  simu- 
lated was  suddenly  made  real  by  the  appearance  of 
Mrs.  Carville,  who  had  been  feeding  her  fowls. 
When  one  is  prone  on  the  grass,  a  clothes-line 
drawn  tight  about  one's  arms,  and  a  triumphant 
cow-boy  of  eight  years  in  the  very  act  of  placing 
his  foot  on  one's  neck,  it  is  difficult  to  look  digni- 
fied. The  sudden  intrusion  of  an  unsympathetic 
personahty  will  banish  the  romantic  illusion. 

It  may  be  that  the  sombre  look  in  Mrs.  Carville's 
face  was  merely  expressive  of  a  doubt  of  my  sanity. 
For  a  grown  man  to  be  playing  with  two  little  boys 
at  three  o'clock  of  a  Tuesday  afternoon,  may  have 
seemed  bizarre  enough  in  her  view.  To  me,  how- 
ever,  endeavouring  to  disengage  myself  from  my 


ALIENS  293 

conqueror  and  assume  an  attitude  in  keeping  with 
my  age  and  reputation,  her  features  were  ominously 
shadowed  by  displeasure. 

"If  I  disturbed  you,"  I  said  courteously,  "I  am 
sorry." 

She  put  her  hand  on  the  paling  and  the  basket 
slid  down  her  arm.  She  seemed  to  be  pondering 
whether  I  had  disturbed  her  or  no,  eyeing  me 
reflectively.  Ben  came  up,  no  longer  a  scalped 
and  abandoned  cowboy,  but  a  delighted  child. 
Perhaps  the  trust  and  frank  camaraderie  of  the  little 
fellow's  attitude  towards  me  affected  her,  for  her 
face  softened. 

"It's  all  right,"  she  rephed  slowly.  "You  must 
not  let  them  trouble  you.  They  make  so  much 
noise." 

"No,  no,"  I  protested.  "I  enjoy  it.  I  am  fond 
of '  children,  very  fond.  They  are  nice  little 
boys." 

They  stood  on  either  side  of  me,  clutching  at 
my  coat,  subdued  by  the  conversation. 

"You  have  not  any  children?"  she  asked,  look- 
ing at  them.    I  shook  my  head. 

"I  am  a  bachelor,"  I  rephed,  "I  am  sorry  to  say." 

"That  accounts  for  it,"  she  commented,  raising 
her  eyes  to  mine.    I  agreed. 

"Possibly,"  I  said.  "None  the  less  I  like  them. 
I  suppose,"  I  added,  "they  ought  to  be  at  school." 

"There  is  measles  everywhere  in  the  school,"  she 
informed  me.    "I  do  not  want  it  yet." 

"Mr.  Carville,"  I  said,  seizing  an  opening,  "told 
me  he  did  not  believe  in  school." 


294  ALIENS 

"That  is  right,"  she  answered.  "He  don't  see 
the  use  of  them.  Nor  me,"  she  concluded  thought- 
fully. 

"That  is  a  very  unusual  view,"  I  ventured. 

"How?"  she  asked  vaguely. 

"Most  people,"  I  explained,  "think  school  a 
very  good  thing." 

"It  costs  nothing,"  she  mused  and  her  hand  fell 
away  from  the  paling.  The  two  little  boys  ran  ofiF, 
intent  on  a  fresh  game.  I  scanned  her  face  fur- 
tively, appreciative  of  the  regular  and  potent  mod- 
elling, the  pure  olive  tints,  the  pose  and  poise  of 
the  head.  Indubitably  her  face  was  dark;  the 
raven  hair  that  swept  across  her  brow  accentuated 
the  gloom  slumbering  in  her  eyes.  One  uncon- 
sciously surmised  that  somewhere  within  her  life 
lay  a  region  of  unrest,  a  period  of  passion  not  to 
be  confused  with  the  quiet  courtship  described  by 
her  husband. 

"True,"  I  assented.  "By  the  way,  is  Mr.  Car- 
ville  due  in  port  soon.''"  She  turned  her  head  and 
regarded  me  attentively. 

"No,"  she  said.    "Do  you  wish  to  see  him?" 

"Oh,  not  particularly,"  I  hastened  to  say.  "He 
was  telling  us  some  of  his  experiences  at  sea,  you 
know.    It  was  very  interesting." 

"I  do  not  like  the  sea,"  she  said  steadily.  "It 
made  me  sick   ..." 

"So  it  did  me.  But  I  enjoy  hearing  about  for- 
eign lands;  Italy,  for  instance." 

"This  is  all  right,"  Mrs.  Carville  replied  in  the 
same  even  tone.    "  Here." 


ALIENS  295 

"And  he  will  be  back  soon?"  I  said,  reverting 
to  Mr.  Carville. 

"Saturday  he  says;  but  it  may  not  be  till  Mon- 
day. If  bad  weather  Monday  .  .  .  Tuesday  .  .  . 
I  cannot  tell." 

"I  see,"  I  said.  "I  hope  we  shall  see  him  then. 
He  was  telling  us  ...  "  I  paused.  It  occurred 
to  me  that  she  would'  hardly  care  to  be  apprised 
of  what  her  husband  had  been  telling  us — "of  his 
early  life,"  I  ended  lamely. 

"Of  me.''"  She  asked  the  question  with  eyes 
gazing  out  toward  the  blue  ridge  of  the  Orange 
Mountains,  without  curiosity  or  anger.  I  felt 
sheepish. 

"Something,"  I  faltered.  She  turned  once  more 
to  glance  in  my  direction.  I  was  surprised  at  the 
mildness  of  her  expression.  Almost  she  smiled. 
At  any  rate  her  lips  parted. 

"He  is  a  good  man,"  she  said  softly,  and  added 
as  she  turned  away,  "Good  afternoon." 


CHAPTER  XI 

Mr.  Carville  Sees  Three  Green  Lights 

AS  happens  on  occasion  the  weather  changed 
with  dramatic  suddenness  in  the  last  week 
in  November.  One  might  almost  imagine 
that  our  august  emperor  of  the  seasons,  the 
Indian  Summer,  protracting  his  reign  against  all  the 
wishes  of  the  gods,  stirring  up  the  implacable  bit- 
terness and  hatred  of  winter,  had  gone  down  sud- 
denly in  ruin  and  death.  I  remember  well  the 
evening  of  the  change.  I  had  spent  a  tiring  day 
in  New  York,  working  gradually  up  Broadway  as 
far  as  Twenty-third  Street.  Seen  through  the  win- 
dows of  the  Jersey  City  ferryboat,  the  prow-like 
configuration  of  lower  Manhattan  seemed  to  be 
plunging  stubbornly  against  the  gale  of  sleet  that 
was  tearing  up  from  the  Narrows.  The  hoarse 
blast  of  the  ferry-whistle  was  swept  out  of  hearing, 
the  panes  resounded  with  millions  of  impacts  as 
the  sleet,  like  thin  iron  rods,  drove  against  them. 
An  ignoble  impulse  led  me  to  join  the  scurrying 
stampede  of  commuters  towards  the  warmth  and 
shelter  of  the  waiting-room.  There  is  something 
personally  hostile  in  a  blizzard.  In  the  earthquake 
at  San  Francisco  there  was  a  giant  playfulness  in 
the  power  that  shook  the  brick  front  from  our 
frame-house  and  revealed  our  intimate  privacies  to 
a  heedless  mob.  There  was  a  feeling  there,  even  at 
the  worst,  when  the  slow  shuddering  rise  of  the  earth 

296 


ALIENS  297 

changed  to  a  swift  and  soul-sliattering  subsidence,  a 
feeling  that  one  was  yet  in  the  hands  of  God.  But 
in  a  blizzard  one  apprehends  an  anger  puny  and 
personal.  There  is  no  sublimity  in  defying  it;  one 
runs  to  the  waiting-room.  And  once  there,  nodding 
to  Confield,  who  sat  in  a  corner  nursing  his  cosmo- 
politan bag,  pressing  through  the  little  crowd  about 
the  news-stand,  I  found  myself  urging  my  body 
past  a  man  wearing  a  Derby  hat  and  smoking  a 
corn-cob  pipe.  I  had  a  momentary  sense  of  grati- 
fication that  even  a  seasoned  seafarer  like  Mr. 
Carville  should  feel  no  shame  in  taking  shelter 
from  the  inclement  weather. 

"Good  evening,  sir,"  he  said  imperturbably. 
"Homeward  bound?" 

"Sure,"  I  said,  putting  down  a  cent  and  taking  up 
the  Manhattan  Mail,  an  evening  journal  of  modest 
headlines.     "I  suppose  you  are  coming  out,  too?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  as  we  turned  away,  "I've  come 
up  from  the  ship.    We  only  got  in  this  morning." 

"You  are  late,"  I  agreed.  "Mrs.  Carville  said 
you  might  be  in  on  Saturday,  and  here  it  is  Wed- 
nesday." 

He  gave  me  a  quick  glance. 

"Oh!  Did  she  tell  you?  Yes,  we  had  several 
bad  days  after  passing  Fastnet.  The  Western 
ocean  is  bad  all  over  just  now." 

"I  suppose  you  were  sorry  to  leave  the  Mediter- 
ranean." 

"It  was  Bremerhaven  this  time,"  he  replied, 
striking  a  match.  "Near  Hamburg,  you  know. 
They  change  us  about  now  and  again." 


298  ALIENS 

"What  is  your  cargo?"  I  asked. 

"I  thought  you  knew,"  he  said,  surprised.  "I'm 
on  the  Raritan,  an  oil-tank.  Standard  Oil,  you 
know.    I  quite  thought  you  knew." 

"I  had  intended  to  ask  you,"  I  said,  "but  it  is 
a  dehcate  subject.  One  cannot  very  well  ferret 
for  details  of  a  stranger's  business." 

"That's  the  genteel  view,  I  know,"  he  said, 
smiling.  "There's  something  to  be  said  for  it, 
too." 

"You  will  come  in  and  finish  your  story?"  I 
ventured. 

"Well,  I  did  think  of  looking  in  some  time  ..." 

"After  dinner  to-night?" 

"Much  obliged.    It  passes  the  time." 

We  went  out  and  climbed  into  the  Paterson  ex-' 
press.  We  are  rather  proud  of  this  train  in  a  way, 
for  it  is  the  only  one  of  the  day  which  confines 
itseK  to  stations  when  contemplating  a  stop.  I 
narrated  to  Mr.  Carville  an  incident  of  the  pre- 
ceding winter  when  a  commuter  of  Hawthorne, 
on  our  line,  stepping  out  one  snowy  night,  found 
himself  clinging  to  the  trestles  of  the  bridge  over 
the  Pasayack  River,  and  the  train  vanishing  into 
the  darkness.  Mr.  Carville  laughed  at  this,  and 
remarked  jocosely  that  he  was  "safer  at  sea."  We 
discussed  for  some  time  the  comparative  merits  of 
English  and  American  railroads,  Mr.  Carville  ex- 
pressing the  fairly  shrewd  opinion  that  "  conditions  so 
different  made  any  comparison  out  of  the  question." 

"After  all,"  he  remarked,  "leaving  out  London, 
which   has   more   people   in   it   than   Canada   and 


ALIENS  299 

Venezuela  put  together,  what  is  England?  From  an 
American  point  of  view,  I  mean.  Simply  Maryland !  '* 
I  appreciated  this.  Often  during  my  sojourn  in 
America,  I  had  pored  over  maps  and  vainly  en- 
deavoured to  form  some  conception  of  so  gigantic 
a  territory.  I  had  failed.  I  had  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  minds  nurtured  in  the  insular  atmos- 
phere were  forever  incapable  of  visualizing  a 
continent.  In  my  fugitive  letters  to  friends  at 
home  I  had  been  reduced  to  the  astronomer's  facile 
illustrations.  "Just  as,"  I  had  written  in  despair — 
"just  as  a  railway  train,  travelling  at  a  mile  a 
minute,  takes  nearly  180  years  to  reach  the  sun, 
so  we,  travelling  in  a  tourist  car  at  rather  less  than 
a  mile  a  minute,  took  an  apparently  interminable 
period  to  reach  the  sun  of  California!"  It  was  a 
poor  jest,  but  excusable  one  whose  clothes,  ears, 
mouth,  eyes  and  nose  were  full  of  cinder-dust, 
excusable  in  a  disdainful  Britisher  so  far  from 
home.  To  Englishmen,  who  had  never  seen  a 
grade-crossing,  a  desert,  or  a  mountain,  and  for 
whom  a  short  night-journey  on  smooth  rock-bal- 
lasted lines  suffices  to  take  them  from  one  end 
of  their  country  to  the  other,  my  figure  was  vague 
enough,  no  doubt.  Some  day,  when  I  go  back,  I 
shall  try  to  explain. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "exactly— Maryland." 
I  was  more  than  ever  reinforced  in  my  already- 
expressed  opinion  that  Mr.  Carville  was  a  man  of 
more  ability  than  ambition.  There  was  to  me 
something  bizarre  in  his  deliberate  abstention  from 
any  contact,  save  books,  with  the  larger  intellectual 


300  ALIENS 

sphere  to  which  he  by  right  belonged.  His  naive 
confession  of  culture  showed  that  he  was  aware 
of  his  latent  power,  but  I  was  not  sure  whether 
he  had  ever  realized  the  stem  law  by  which  organs 
become  atrophied  by  disuse.  We  had  reached  our 
station  and  were  struggling  up  Pine  Street  through 
rain  and  wind  before  I  ventured  to  hint  at  my 
concern. 

"Ah!"   he  said.     "I   daresay   you're  right   in   a 

way.     But "     The  wind  blew  his  voice  away, 

so  that  he  seemed  to  be  speaking  through  the  tele- 
phone, " I've  a  family  to  think  of." 

We  parted  at  the  door,  and  I  hurried  to  tell  the 
news  to  my  friends.  They  smiled  when  I  spoke 
of  Mr.  Carville. 

"We've  had  news,  too,"  said  Bill,  helping  me  to 
spinach.    "A  paper  from  Cecil." 

"Copy  of  The  Morning ^^^  added  Mac.  It  is  a 
rule  of  the  house  that  there  be  no  papers  on  the 
table,  so  I  possessed  my  soul  in  patience  until  after 
dinner.  My  cigar  going  well,  and  Mac  thundering 
the  "Soldiers'  Chorus,"  from  Faust,  on  the  piano, 
I  opened  the  paper  which  Bill  handed  to  me.  To 
be  honest,  I  was  a  Uttle  startled.  The  chief  item 
on  the  news  page  was  headed: 

AEROPHONE  MESSAGE  FROM  CARVILLE; 
OVER  HELIGOLAND;  ALARM  IN  GERMANY. 

Copyright  by  The  London  ''Morning.'* 
The  special  article  of  the  day  was  headed:  "The 
Napoleon   of   the  Air;   a   Character  Sketch,"   and 


ALIENS  301 

the  leader,  signed  by  Lord  Cholme  himself,  was  a 
paean,  in  stilted  journalese,  in  praise  of  the  Morn- 
ing's enterprise  in  encouraging  invention. 

"The  Empire,"  wrote  Lord  Cholme,  "can  no 
longer  afford  to  pass  by  one  of  her  most  brilliant 
sons.  In  the  light  of  his  magnificent  achievement, 
the  daring  of  a  Peary,  the  nerve  of  a  Shackleton, 
the  indomitable  persistence  of  a  Marconi,  dwindle 
and  fade.  We  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  since 
the  capture  of  Gibraltar,  the  Empire  has  secured 
no  such  chance  for  consolidating  her  paramountcy 
in  Europe.  The  present  is  no  time  for  hesitation 
or  delay.  Mr.  Carville  is  master  of  the  situation. 
By  his  message  from  the  air,  three  thousand  feet 
above  Heligoland,  in  full  view  of  German  territory, 
to  the  office  of  The  Morning,  he  has  demonstrated 
the  efficiency  of  his  machine.  If  that  is  not  suffi- 
cient, Mr.  Carville's  next  journey  will  convince 
Europe,  if  not  England.  If  the  pettifogging  Radi- 
cal Government  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  our  brilliant 
correspondent,  if  they  ignore  his  claims  and  chaffer 
in  any  commercial  spirit  with  his  accredited  agents, 
their  days  are  numbered.  It  is  hardly  too  much  to 
say  that  the  days  of  the  Empire  are  also  num- 
bered ..." 

Apart  from  our  own  private  interest  in  the  affair, 
the  news  did  not  thrill.  In  America  one's  withers 
are  un wrung  by  such  scares.  The  "  exclusiveness " 
of  Lord  Cholme's  information,  indeed,  defeated  his 
object.  Lord  Cholme,  I  knew,  was  loved  neither 
in  Fleet  Street  nor  in  Park  Place.     His  ruthless 


302  ALIENS 

competition  with  the  news  agencies,  his  capture  of 
numerous  cable-routes,  had  gradually  divided  Eng- 
land into  two  classes:  those  who  read  The  Morning 
and  those  who  didn't.  Everyone  remembers  the 
exclusive  description  of  the  destruction  of  Con- 
stantinople in  The  Morning.  No  one  was  surprised 
to  find  that  the  following  day  Constantinople  was 
still  alive  and  well.  Clever  young  Oxford  men  who 
had  not  succeeded  in  getting  a  post  on  The  Morn- 
ing, satirized  the  paper  in  other  journals  who  never 
paid  more  than  two  guineas  a  column.  No  doubt, 
having  been  a  newspaper  man  myself,  I  discounted 
the  effect  of  the  scare  upon  the  public.  I  could 
imagine  the  delicate  raillery  of  the  other  papers,  if 
indeed  they  deigned  to  notice  Lord  Cholme's  ex- 
clusive information  at  all. 

The  special  biography  was  as  accurate  as  such 
biographies  usually  are.  It  was  written  in  a  fair 
imitation  of  IVIr.  Kipling's  racy  colloquial  style  and 
contained  numerous  references  to  the  Empire,  the 
White  Man's  Burden  and  our  "far-flung  battle 
line."  I  suspected  that  Monsieur  D'Aubigne  had 
supplied  the  basic  "facts"  which  had  been  edited 
by  Lord  Cholme  before  being  handed  on  to  "Vol- 
Plane,"  as  the  biographer  called  himself. 

I  set  the  paper  down  and  resumed  my  cigar. 
The  drums  and  tramplings  of  Lord  Cholme's  organ 
had  revealed  nothing  fresh.  I  understand  now 
why  my  friends  had  merely  mentioned  the  fact  of 
its  arrival  and  made  no  comment.  After  all,  our 
real  interest  lay  in  the  man,  not  in  his  aeroplane. 
We  had  never  seen  an   aeroplane  except   in   the 


ALIENS  303 

cinema  films,  but  we  were  familiar  enough  with 
current  events  to  feel  no  surprise  that  a  man  had 
flown  over  the  North  Sea.  I  think  I  expressed  our 
mutual  sentiment  when  I  observed  that  Cecil's 
story  of  how  Frank  Carville  won  his  bet,  and  Mr. 
Carville's  own  account  of  the  voyage  from  the 
Argentine  to  Genoa,  told  us  far  more  about  the 
man  than  "Vol-Plane's"  highly-paid  hack-work. 

We  had  been  but  a  few  minutes  in  the  studio 
before  Mr.  Carville  knocked  and  Mac  ran  down  to 
admit  him.  We  heard  the  rumble  of  voices  while 
our  visitor  discarded  his  coat;  comments  on  "the 
change,"  and  then  footsteps  on  the  stairs.  I  went 
to  the  door  to  welcome  him. 

He  was  standing  on  the  landing,  appraising  with 
a  quick  eye  the  Kakemonos  and  prints  that  covered 
the  distempered  walls.  We  are  rather  proud  of 
our  "Japs,"  as  Bill  calls  them.  I  even  tried  to 
learn  something  of  the  language  from  the  "boy" 
who  was  our  servant  in  San  Francisco.  He  was  not 
a  scholarly  boy,  and  he  told  lies  in  English,  so  that 
it  is  possible  his  tuition  was  of  no  value.  I  remem- 
ber Bill  was  ironic  because,  when  Nakamura  was 
dismissed  in  ignominy,  and  wrote  on  the  kitchen 
wall  for  the  benefit  of  his  successor,  I  was  unable 
to  decipher  the  message. 

"Do  you  care  for  this  sort  of  thing?"  said  Mac. 
"That's  original,"  pointing  to  a  fine  Hiroshige. 

"I  used  to,"  replied  Carville,  feehng  for  his  pipe. 
"I  was  a  good  while  in  that  trade — coal  from  Moji 
to  Singapore.  I  think  they're  best  at  a  distance 
though — the  people,  I  mean.'* 


S04  ALIENS 

Mac  protested  against  this  "narrow"  view. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Carville,  coming 
into  the  studio.  "I  read  Lafcadio  Hearn  when  I 
was  younger ;  read  him  again  out  in  Japan.    Humph !" 

Wliether  his  characteristic  ejaculation  referred  to 
Hearn  or  the  studio  I  cannot  determine.  His  in- 
terest was  obvious,  but  it  was  interest,  not  of  a 
connoisseur,  but  of  a  man  looking  round  another 
man's  workshop.  Von  Roon  used  to  say  in  Chel- 
sea, "There  is  hope  for  him  who  looks  with  atten- 
tion upon  his  neighbour's  tools."  Mr.  Carville 
sank  slowly  into  a  chair,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  a 
recent  nude  study. 

"We  haven't  any  Scotch,  but  if  you  care  for  Rye 
"  said  Mac,  reaching  for  a  tray  on  the  throne. 

Mr.  Carville's  eye  lost  its  vague,  reflective  ex- 
pression as  it  fell  upon  the  tray. 

"Ah?"  he  said,  "I'd  rather  have  good  Rye  than 
— ^than — well,  you  know  what  most  of  the  Scotch  is 
here.  No — no  water,  thanks.  I  take  it  as  I  find 
it." 

It  was  a  new  facet  of  his  character,  this.  We 
watched  him  swallow  the  neat  spirit  at  a  gulp  and 
place  the  empty  glass  on  the  tray  without  emo- 
tion. Mac  and  I  sipped  gently  and  waited  for  Mr. 
Carville  to  begin. 

"I've  been  rather  worried  just  lately,  with  one 
thing  and  another,"  he  observed,  putting  away  his 
little  brass  tobacco-box.  "Second  went  home  to 
get  married  last  trip,  and  the  Third,  promoted, 
you  understand,  needs  an  eye.  Very  willing  and 
all   that,   but  he's   been  in   these  big  hotel-ships. 


ALIENS  305 

Western  Ocean  all  his  life,  >  and  as  I  say,  he  needs 
an  eye.  I  was  telling  you  about  my  brother,  if  I 
remember." 

We  murmured  that  he  had,  and  watched  Mr. 
Carville's  obvious  enjoyment  of  his  pipe. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  "the  Brignole  station  in  Genoa. 
Humph!" 

"You  see,  my  brother  has  something  in  his  make- 
up that  appeals  to  a  woman.  I  was  going  to  say, 
all  women.  There's  something  spectacular,  you 
might  say,  in  the  way  he  carries  on.  I've  never 
been  able  to  decide  whether  it's  intentional  or  just 
fate.  Anyhow,  there  it  is;  and  if  you  look  at  it  in 
that  light,  it  isn't  so  very  wonderful  after  all  that  a 
girl  like  Rosa  was  then  should  have  been  dazzled 
and  carried  away.  When  she  jumped  up  and  stood 
staring  at  me,  I  hardly  knew  what  to  do.  'Rosa!' 
I  said,  and  we  stood  facing  each  other  for  a  while. 
I  don't  know;  but  I  think  we  got  to  know  each 
other  better  just  then.  For  me,  at  any  rate,  it  was 
a  revelation.  They  say  a  drowning  man  sees  all 
his  past  life  while  the  water  is  pressing  on  his  ear- 
drums. Something  like  that  happened  to  me  then 
in  that  dismal,  badly-lighted  booking-hall.  It 
wasn't  love,  in  the  sugary  sentimental  sense,  that 
I  felt  for  Rosa;  but  a  blind,  helpless  sort  of  an 
emotion,  a  feeling  that  if  I  didn't  get  her  I  was 
lost — lost!  I  put  out  my  hands  as  though  I  was 
catching  hold  of  something  to  hold  me  up  .  .  . 
I  felt  her  hands. 

"I   can   hardly   remember  how   we   went   away 
from  there.     I  know  the  driver  shouted  to  me  as 


306  ALIENS 

we  came  out  and  I  went  up  and  paid  him.  And 
then  we  were  in  the  Piazza  Corvetto,  sitting  on  a 
seat,  near  where  the  trolley-cars  stop.  How  long 
we  sat  there*  I  don't  know  either.  I  knew  I'd  got 
her  again.  She  was  there,  alongside,  and  we  were 
talking,  like  two  children.  I  was  very  glad  .  .  . 
you  know." 

He  paused,  and  we  went  on  smoking  and  sip- 
ping, and  Bill  bent  her  head  over  her  needlework. 
I  thought  with  a  sudden  and  revealing  vividness  of 
the  woman  who  had  said  to  me,  in  her  gentle  Ital- 
ian voice,  "He  is  a  good  man."  I  think  we  were 
very  glad  too,  though  we  did  not  say  so. 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  he  went  on  evenly,  "whether 
my  brother  intended  to  take  her  away  with  him 
and  was  prevented  by  some  accident,  or  whether 
he  had  changed  his  mind.  I  think  he  intended  to. 
I  can  tell  you  what  I  did  myself.  Before  I  left 
Genoa  I  married  Rosa.  She  wanted  it.  She  did 
not  trust  herself.  There  are  men  like  that.  Women 
cannot  trust  themselves  unless  some  man  will  trust 
them. 

"WThen  we  sailed  out  of  Genoa  bound  for  Buenos 
Ayres,  I  was  a  married  man,  and  Rosa  had  a  flat 
in  Via  Palestro.  1  thought  I  knew  my  brother  well 
enough  to  feel  sure  that  I  needn't  fear  him  any 
more.  That's  the  strange  part  of  a  business  like 
that.  To  Rosa,  to  me,  it  was  life  or  death;  to  my 
brother  it  was  the  amusement  of  a  few  hours,  days, 
perhaps  a  week.    It's  a  queer  world. 

"I  think  it  was  about  two  years  after  that  before 
I  saw  my  brother  again.    When  the  war  in  South 


ALIENS  307 

Africa  started  we  were  outward  bound  in  ballast  for 
Buenos  Ayres.  At  Monte  Video  we  received  orders 
to  go  to  Rosario  and  load  remounts  for  Cape  Town. 
It  was  a  big  business;  I  believe  the  owners  built 
three  new  ships  out  of  the  profits  of  that  charter. 
When  we  got  up  the  river  those  bony  Argentine 
cattle  were  waiting  for  us  and  run  aboard  in  a  few 
hours.  No  time  for  boilers  or  overhauling  engines 
or  anything.  Straight  out  again,  due  east,  with  a 
crowd  of  the  toughest  cattle-men  I  ever  saw  before 
or  since.  There  was  no  peace  or  quiet  on  the  ship 
at  all.  They  were  not  professional  cattle-deck 
tenders  at  all,  you  see.  They  only  took  the  job 
to  get  to  the  Cape,  where  the  trouble  was.  Most 
of  them  deserted  and  drifted  up  country.  Each 
trip  we  had  to  get  a  fresh  team.  I  can't  say  I 
enjoyed  my  life  very  much  during  that  charter. 
It  was  hard  luck,  though  nothing  out  of  the  way 
for  a  sailor-man,  to  go  off  the  Genoa  run  now  I 
was  married,  and  had  a  wife  there. 

"I  saw  my  brother  soon  after  Cronje  was  cap- 
tured at  Paardeberg.  I  was  ashore  in  Cape  Town 
one  evening  taking  a  walk  with  the  Second,  just 
to  get  out  of  sight  of  the  ship  for  an  hour,  when  he 
pulls  my  sleeve  and  says  he: 

*"I  say.  Chief,  you  remember  that  new  mess- 
man  you  got  in  B.  A.?  That  Lord.'^  Well,  ain't 
that  him  over  there.  You  remember,  don't  you.'^ 
That  chap  who  won  the  lottery  in  Genoa  that  time. 
Look!'  He  pointed  across  the  street  to  a  party 
of  chaps  in  khaki  walking  along  and  slapping  their 
tegs  with  their  canes.     The  tallest  man  and  the 


808  ALIENS 

finest-looking  of  the  lot  was  my  brother.  I  couldn't 
be  mistaken,  though  it  would  be  difficult  to  say 
exactly  why.    It  was  his  air. 

"He  did  not  see  me,  but  I  turned  away  and  went 
into  the  first  saloon  for  a  drink.  I  wanted  to  be 
away  from  him  and  I  wanted  a  drink.  I  had  a 
panicky  feeling  about  him.  While  the  Second  re- 
called all  the  incidents  of  *that  new  mess-man's' 
career  on  board,  I  was  thinking  that  perhaps  we 
were  destined  to  cross  each  other  all  our  lives,  that 
go  where  I  would,  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  avoid  him. 
You  see  how  a  man's  imagination  will  run  away 
with  him.  I  ought  to  have  thanked  God  he  was 
in  South  Africa  and  likely  to  get  himself  shot  fight- 
ing for  his  country  instead  of  going  after  women. 
When  I  was  safe  aboard  the  ship  again  I  began 
to  see  how  I  had  been  frightened.  For  it  was  fright 
and  nothing  else  that  turned  me  into  that  saloon 
to  avoid  my  brother.  I  thought  of  him  rushing 
up  to  the  Brignole  station  at  the  last  second  and 
looking  round  for  Rosa,  and  finding  her  gone.  He 
would  know  I'd  had  something  to  do  with  it.  He 
would  swear  to  find  her  some  day,  swear  in  one  of 
his  hot,  short  passions,  passions  like  a  West  India 
hurricane  that  whips  and  crashes  and  smashes  every- 
thing around  for  a  minute  or  two. 

"I  used  to  think  a  lot  about  him  on  the  voyage 
back  to  Buenos  Ayres.  I  don't  know  what  he  was 
in,  in  the  war,  though  the  Second,  whose  brother 
was  a  driver  in  the  Artillery,  said  he  was  in  the 
Mounted  Infantry  uniform.  Everybody  was 
Mounted  Infantry  in  those  days.    To  me  it  seemed 


ALIENS  309 

■A 

strange  that  Frank  should  go  out  to  the  war,  but 
I've  come  to  the  conclusion  he  really  felt  the  call. 
There  was  the  excitement  too.  The  old  bad  Irish 
blood  comes  out  in  the  love  of  a  row. 

"In  Buenos  Ayres  I  had  a  letter  from  Aunt 
Rebecca.  Rosa  had  a  baby,  but  it  was  dead  as 
soon  as  born.  The  old  woman  said  I'd  better  come 
home.  I  remember  walking  up  and  down  the 
bridge-deck  that  night,  thinking  things  out  under 
the  stars.  I  knew  Rosa  would  like  to  go  to  Eng- 
land. They  hear  so  much  about  Ingkilterra  in 
Italy.  For  them  it  is  a  land  where  lords  and  ladies 
walk  about  the  streets  and  give  pennies  to  poor 
people  all  day  long.  Then  again,  I  was  not  only 
in  need  of  a  holiday,  but  I  was  able  to  afford  one  if 
I  was  careful  and  kept  down  expenses.  To  take 
a  holiday  in  England,  with  Rosa!  To  see  it  as 
though  it  was  all  fresh!  The  fancy  took  strong 
hold  of  me.  I  saw  myself  going  through  St.  Paul's, 
the  Tower,  Monument  and  Westminster  Abbey,  as 
an  alien.  I  saw  the  hungry  landlady  in  the  Blooms- 
bury  boarding-house  trying  to  rook  me.  *Blooms- 
burys'  have  a  very  bad  name  in  Italy  among  edu- 
cated people.  I  read  an  article  in  the  Stampa — 
very  humorous  it  was.     Humph! 

"I  talked  it  over  with  the  Skipper  next  day. 
It  is  a  strange  thing  to  me  how  men  value  one 
sentiment  and  underrate  another.  If  I'd  gone  to 
the  Old  Man  and  said,  *I  want  to  go  home.  Cap- 
tain, and  see  my  wife,'  he  would  have  asked  me 
if  I  was  crazy.  But  as  soon  as  I  said — showing 
him  the  black-edged  letter — that  the  kid  was  dead. 


310  ALIENS 

he  pulled  a  long  face  and  said  he*d  see  the  agents 
at  once.  I  wrote  to  my  old  uncle  in  London  ex- 
plaining matters.  The  Second  got  his  step  and 
they  got  a  new  Fourth  off  a  meat-boat  of  the  com- 
pany's that  was  loading  at  the  time.  When  I  was 
paid  off  I  took  my  dunnage  and  bought  me  a  second- 
class  ticket  for  Genoa  on  a  Rubattino  boat. 

"To  a  certain  extent  I  had  no  reason  to  be  dis- 
satisfied with  my  success  in  life.  Many  a  man  has 
done  worse  at  thirty-three.  I  was  married;  I  had 
money  in  the  bank;  I  could  eat  and  drink  and 
sleep  well;  I  enjoyed  reading  and  smoking.  Be- 
yond that,  I  have  grown  to  think  a  man  need  not 
go.  For  you  gentlemen,  of  course,  it's  different. 
You  are  out  for  fame.  You  work  at  high  and  low 
pressure,  whereas  I  work  in  a  vacuum,  so  to  speak. 
I  thought  a  good  deal  about  life  on  that  voyage 
to  Genoa  as  a  passenger.  It  was  a  new  experience 
to  me,  I  can  tell  you.  For  the  first  day  or  two  I 
was  lost.  There  seemed  nothing  to  do.  I'd  walk 
up  and  down  the  promenade  deck  listening  to  the 
beat  of  the  twin-engines,  wondering  if  the  Second 
was  a  good  man  .  .  .  habit,  you  see?  And  then 
I  found  a  little  library  abaft  the  smoking-room 
full-up  with  leather-bound  books  that  nobody 
wanted  to  read.  They  were  Italian,  of  course,  for 
it  was  an  ItaHan  ship,  and  it  struck  me  that  I'd 
have  some  fun  rubbing  up  my  knowledge  of  the 
language.  For  let  me  tell  you  that  colloquial 
Genoese  doesn't  take  you  very  far  into  Dante  or 
Boccaccio!  I  think  that  was  one  reason  why  Rosa 
had  disliked  the  idea  of  living  in  Italy.    Although 


ALIENS  311 

I  didn't  notice  it  much,  being  a  foreigner,  her  speech 
was  not  refined.    How  could  it  be,  down  on  the  Via 
Milano  with  Rebecca  for  a  teacher?    Well,  I  started 
in  and  every   day  I  worked  my  way  through  a 
chapter   or   two.      Perhaps   it   is   because   I   know 
modern  Italian  writing  so  well- -for  a  foreigner — 
that  I  don't  take  much  stock  in   all  these  great 
men  English  and  Americans  boom  so.     They  seem 
to  me  smart  Alecks,  but  the  high-pressure  men  are 
Latins.     I   can't  help   thinking,   after  reading  the 
modem  men,  that  they  are  like  the  transformers  in 
an  electric  power-plant.    The  Latins  are  the  gener- 
ators  of   ideas,   and   these  other  chaps   are  trans- 
formers.    They  reduce  the  voltage,   lose  a  lot  in 
leakage,    but    are    useful    because    they    make    the 
current  available  to  the  small  man.     It's  a  rather 
technical  illustration,  but  that's  what  I  mean. 
i    "Two  men,  or  two  books  if  you  like,  took  a  great 
hold   of  me  on   that  voyage — Mazzini's   Duties  of 
Man  and  Cellini's  Life.    I  suppose  they  are  about 
as  far  apart  as  any  two  books — or  men — could  get. 
You  may  laugh  at  the  notion,  but  I  found  myself 
in  sympathy  with  both!     Mazzini  appealed  to  my 
mind,  Cellini  to  my  imagination.     If  Ruskin  had 
stuck    to  his  last  as  Mazzini  did,  he  might    have 
made  a  revolution  in  England.    I'm  not  a  Socialist, 
never  was,  any  more  than  Mazzini,  and  there  was 
something  fine  to  me  about  the  way  he  told  these 
boiling,    ignorant,    weak-minded    mobs    of    Italian 
workmen  that  they  had  duties  as  well  as  rights. 
There's  too  much  talk  of  rights  nowadays.     Any- 
body would  think  that  because  a  man  works  with 


312  ALIENS 

his  hands  and  takes  wages,  he's  free  to  do  as  he 
pleases.  I  remember  the  Old  Man  once  when  I 
had  trouble  with  a  fireman.  *A11  I  want  is  justice!' 
says  the  man,  putting  his  dirty  hand  on  the  chart- 
room  door.  'Justice! '  roars  the  Old  Man.  *By  God, 
you  dirty  bone-headed  Liverpool  Irishman,  if  you 
had  justice  you'd  be  in  irons,  that's  where  you'd 
be.'     Humph! 

*'I  think  I  took  to  Cellini  because  in  a  way  he 
reminded  me  of  my  brother.  He  got  away  with  it 
every  time!  The  idea  of  doing  anything,  or  not 
doing  anything,  because  it  was  against  the  law  or 
custom,  never  entered  his  head!  Very  few  people 
who  read  Cellini  realize  that  there  are  men  like 
him  now.  Every  bit.  They  don't  write  about 
themselves,  that's  all.  There  will  always  be  a  cer- 
tain number  of  men  of  his  kidney,  a  sort  of  season- 
ing for  the  rest  of  us.  They  fear  nothing  and  they 
reverence  nothing   .    .    .   Strong  men! 

"All  day  and  every  day  I'd  sit  away  astern  read- 
ing these  books,  and  gradually  an  idea  took  shape 
in  my  mind.  It  was  this.  It  was  my  duty  to  have 
a  family,  since  my  brother  had  turned  out  so.  More 
than  that,  it  was  my  duty  to  give  them  a  chance, 
when  they  came.  I  could  not  see  how  I  was  to  do 
that  in  England.  I  can't  see  it  now.  England  to 
me  is  on  the  crumble.  Emigration  has  dug  away 
the  outside  of  the  walls  and  revolution  is  digging 
away  inside.  For  men  like  Belvoir,  men  who  have 
been  to  public-schools  and  Oxford,  and  have  a 
private  income,  it  will  be  comfortable  enough  for 
a  long  time  to  come.     But  it  is  on  the  crumble. 


ALIENS  313 

When  I  thought  of  my  children  I  never  pictured 
them  grown  up  in  that  genteel  snobbish  life  that 
I'd  been  brought  up  in.    No! 

"And  I  knew  that  Rosa  still  had  her  dislike  of 
Italy.  What  should  we  do?  Suddenly  it  occurred 
to  me  that  since  my  father  had  come  from  America, 
I  could  go  back  there.  I  believe  in  this  country, 
and  it's  going  on  ten  years  since  I  first  came.  There's 
something  electric  in  the  air  over  here,  a  feeling  that 
things  grow.  My  boys  will  have  a  chance  here 
...  I  think. 

"That  was  one  part  of  the  idea.  The  other  was 
to  name  my  boys  after  those  two  men.  It  may  be 
only  fancy,  but  I  think  names  have  an  influence, 
you  know.  A  father's  fancy — let  it  go  at  that! 
I'd  like  somehow  to  have  one  of  my  boys  an  artist, 
and  watch  him  grow.  I  used  to  dream  about  the 
future  on  that  lazy  voyage  to  Genoa.  Every  man 
does  at  times.    Pipe-dreams,  you  know. 

"Rosa  was  out  and  about  when  I  reached  the 
Via  Palestro.  She  fell  in  at  once  with  my  plan  to 
take  a  trip  to  England.  We  stopped  at  Paris  for  a 
day  or  two  to  look  round  and  buy  things,  and  then 
on  to  London.  I  found  a  quiet  little  private  board- 
ing establishment  in  Tavistock  Square,  where  we 
lived  cheap  and  comfortable.  A  penny  bus  took 
us  almost  anywhere.  I'd  been  fancying  myself 
with  Rosa  going  about  as  a  stranger,  and  if  you'll 
believe  me  it  was  almost  a  fact!  London  had 
changed  very  much  since  I'd  been  in  Victoria  Street. 
You'll  notice  that  if  you  go  back  now.  Same  as 
New  York;  one  can  hardly  recognize  some  parts 


314  ALIENS 

of  it  now.  I  did  enjoy  that  time.  Rosa  was  so 
pleased  with  everything  she  saw.  It  was  May,  you 
see;  London  in  May.  We  used  to  go  down  to 
Chelsea  and  watch  the  boats  on  the  river,  and  see 
the  people  in  the  grand  houses  on  the  embankment, 
going  out  in  their  automobiles. 

"Gradually  the  idea  that  my  brother  would  come 
across  me  again  got  fainter  and  I  didn't  encourage 
it.  I  heard  nothing  of  him.  My  uncle,  who  had 
retired,  down  at  Surbiton,  told  me  he  had  not  seen 
him  for  years.  We  agreed  that  it  was  best  to  leave 
him  to  his  own  devices.  I  didn't  take  Rosa  down. 
Somehow  I  didn't  see  her  catching  on  to  my  uncle 
and  cousins.    They  were  a  httle  too  genteel  for  her. 

"For  the  same  reason  I  didn't  take  her '^^  to 
Clifford's  Inn  when  I  went  to  see  iVIiss  Flagg,  the 
woman  Gladys  had  lived  with.  Miss  Flagg  was 
there,  much  the  same  as  before,  with  her  flat  and 
peculiar  furniture  and  her  untidy  dress.  She  was 
so  glad  to  see  me  and  hoped  I'd  got  another  book 
to  print.  Humph!  She  told  me  she  didn't  see 
Gladys  very  often  nowadays;  had  a  flat  of  her 
own  in  Fulham.  My  brother  had  crooked  his  finger, 
and  away  she  ran.  Miss  Flagg  told  me  all  about  it, 
how  Gladys  had  taken  to  paint — on  her  face  I 
mean — and  gone  to  the  devil  generally.  I'll  say 
this  for  Miss  Flagg,  she  never  used  anything  to 
add  to  her  beauty,  much  as  she  needed  it.  We 
were  going  on  very  nicely  when  I  happened  to  men- 
tion I  was  married,  and  all  the  hght  went  out  of 
Miss  Flagg's  face.  She  was  finished  with  me.  You 
see,  even  when  they're  after  votes,  they're  just  the 


ALIENS  315 

same.  I  left  her  and  took  Rosa  to  the  Zoo  in  the 
afternoon.    I  enjoyed  that,  and  so  did  she. 

"After  about  three  months  of  this  sort  of  thing, 
I  began  to  hanker  for  the  sea  again.  You  may 
wonder  at  that,  but  it's  a  fact.  It  grows  on  men, 
me  for  one.  I  felt  lost  without  the  beat  of  the 
engine,  you  know.  So  I  applied  for  several  jobs, 
and  finally  the  builders  of  the  ship  I'm  on  now,  the 
Raritan,  wanted  a  chief  to  take  her  out  to  New 
York.  I  got  the  job  and  we  went  to  Sunderland 
to  join  her.  Since  then  I've  been  crossing  and  re- 
crossing  the  Western  Ocean.  And  speaking  in  a 
general  way,  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

Mr.  Carville,  pinching  his  shaven  chin  with  a 
thumb  and  fore-finger,  looked  down  meditatively 
at  his  boots.  In  some  subtle  way  his  manner 
behed  his  words.  I  felt  a  lively  conviction  that 
there  was  in  a  particular  way  something  more  to  it. 
It  seemed  quite  incredible  that  he  had  no  more  to 
tell  us  of  his  brother. 

"Surely,"  I  said,  "you  have  heard  of  your  brother 
smce.'' 

He  gave  me  a  quick  look. 

"That's  right,"  he  said.  "I  have.  I  was  going 
to  tell  you  about  it.  I  saw  him,  fifteen  days  ago, 
in  the  North  Sea." 

"Great  Scott,  did  you  really?"  exclaimed  Mac, 
and  he  picked  up  the  copy  of  The  Morning.  "Look 
here!" 

Mr.  Carville  took  the  paper  and  read  the  news 
without  exhibiting  any  emotion.  I  saw  his  eye-lid 
flicker  as  he  glanced  down  the  special  article  by 


316  ALIENS 

"Vol-Plane."  Lord  Cholme's  concern  for  the  Em- 
pire seemed  to  leave  him  cold. 

"Humph!"  he  remarked  and  handed  the  paper 
to  Mac,  remaining  lost  in  thought  for  a  moment. 

"Ah!"  he  said  at  length.  "That  certainly  ac- 
counts for  him.  But  it  doesn't  say  anything  about 
the  three  green  lights." 

"What  green  lights?"  I  asked,  little  thinking 
that  I  should  see  these  same  lights  myself  in  the 
near  future. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  he,  and  looked  round  for  a 
place  to  knock  out  his  pipe.  I  passed  him  the  ash- 
bowl  that  Mac  brought  back  from  Mexico  when  he 
went  down  there  to  do  a  bird's-eye  view  for  a  min- 
ing company.  IVIr.  Carville  held  it  up  to  examine 
the  crude  red  and  blue  daub  on  the  pale  glaze. 

"I  suppose,"  he  began,  "that  of  all  the  meetings 
I've  had  with  my  brother,  this  last  one  was  the 
most  unusual.  It  was  unusual  enough,  that  time 
in  the  Parque  Colon,  when  he  grabbed  my  neck  in 
the  dark;  but  this  last  meeting  beats  that,  I  think. 
It's  funny  how  a  quiet,  respectable  man  like  me 
should  have  such  experiences,  isn't  it? 

"I  ought  to  explain  that  the  Raritafi,  like  all  oil 
tank  steamers,  has  her  engines  aft.  The  captain 
and  mates  live  amidships  under  the  bridge,  while 
we  engineers  all  live  in  the  poop,  under  the  quarter- 
deck, as  they  call  it  in  the  Navy.  There  is  a  lotig 
gangway  between  the  two  houses,  but  as  a  general 
thing  we  live  apart.  We  have  our  own  pantry  and 
steward  and  we  can  go  straight  out  of  our  berths 
into  the  engine-room  without  coming  on  deck  at  all. 


ALIENS  317 

"It  was  the  second  night  after  we  left  Bremer- 
haven  that  this  happened  and  about  ten  minutes 
after  eight  bells,  midnight.  I  keep  the  eight  to 
twelve  watch  with  the  Fourth,  you  see,  and  it  often 
happens  that  I  don't  feel  like  turning  in  right  away. 
It  was  a  clear  yet  dark  night  without  a  ripple  on 
the  sea.  It  had  been  one  of  those  calm  days  that 
we  have  in  English  waters  in  winter  time,  a  pale 
sun  shining  through  a  light  haze,  cold  yet  pleasant. 
I'd  seen  the  Third  tumble  down  the  ladder  and 
heard  the  Fourth  put  his  door  on  the  hook.  Down 
below  there  was  the  quick  thump  of  the  engines, 
the  rattle  of  the  ashes  being  shovelled  into  the 
ejector,  and  the  click  of  oil-cup  lids  as  the  Third 
went  round  the  bearings.  Everything  seemed  in 
fair  trim  for  a  quiet  night.  I  walked  up  and  down 
the  deck  for  a  spell,  finishing  my  pipe,  and  then  I 
was  standing  by  the  stern  light,  an  electric  fixed  on 
the  after  side  of  the  scuttle.  A  good  way  to  the 
westward  was  the  Kentish  Knock  Lightship.  I 
was  leaning  against  the  bulkhead,  smoking  and 
thinking  of  things  in  general,  you  may  say,  and 
wondering  what  the  Second  would  do  next,  when 
I  saw  three  green  lights,  very  low  on  our  starboard 
quarter.  I  don't  think  I  was  much  struck  by  them 
at  first.  Might  have  been  a  trawler.  The  Second 
Mate  told  me  afterwards  that  after  the  Old  Man 
had  gone  down  he  saw  a  green  light  and  thought  it 
was  the  Harwich  and  Hook-of -Holland  mail-boat. 
He  was  half  asleep  or  he'd  have  wondered  where 
her  mast-lights  were.  I  took  very  little  notice,  I 
say,  until  it  struck  me  that,  so  far  from  being  a 


318  ALIENS 

trawler,  those  lights  were  moving  a  good  deal 
faster  than  a  mail-boat.  Sometimes  I  could  see 
only  one  light.  I  began  to  wonder  what  it  was 
and  I  stepped  down  to  my  room  to  get  my  binocu- 
lars. I  remember  the  mess-room  was  dark,  and 
across  the  table  and  floor  was  a  narrow  bar  of  light 
from  the  Fourth's  door.  As  I  came  up  the  stairs 
I  heard  a  peculiar  droning  sound,  as  though  the 
Third  had  let  the  dynamo  run  away.  I  turned 
round  intending  to  go  down  below,  when  I  saw  the 
green  lights  coming  up  fast  .  .  .  fast. 
^,  "As  my  foot  touched  the  deck  the  wings  were 
overhead  and  I  saw  the  long  body  and  flat  tail. 
To  me,  for  I'd  never  seen  an  aeroplane  close  before, 
it  was  a  wonderful  sight.  I  put  the  glasses  up  and 
watched  it  slide  away  in  the  dark,  dropping  until 
it  seemed  to  skim  the  water.  'So  that's  an  aero- 
plane!' I  said  to  myself.  And  I  saw  it  wheel  round 
and  the  green  lights  came  into  view  again,  rising, 
I  remember.  I  was  a  bit  excited  and  leaned  over 
the  stern  rail.  I  had  never  realized  before  how  a 
man  might  feel  while  flying.  I'd  always  looked  at 
the  pictures  as  rather  Jules  Verney,  you  might  say; 
improbable  and  far-fetched.  But  here  it  was,  com- 
ing up  on  us  again,  much  more  wonderful  than 
any  picture!  We  were  doing  about  twelve  knots, 
and  I  suppose  that  machine  was  coming  up  at 
thirty.  Just  above  the  big  triangle  of  three  green 
lights  was  a  blue  spark  snapping,  and  in  the  shadow 
between  the  wings  the  shape  of  a  man.  I  stood 
there  watching,  watching,  feeling  nervous  because 
of   that  peculiar   drone   that   the  propeller   made. 


ALIENS  319 

when  all  of  a  sudden  it  stopped  and  the  whole  thing 
swooped  down  to  within  twenty  feet  of  the  awning- 
spars.  I  stepped  back  a  little  and  looked  straight 
up.  In  the  wink  of  an  eye  he  was  gone,  but  I  saw 
him,  and  he  me.  As  he  swerved  away  to  clear  the 
funnels,  I  heard  him  give  a  great  shout  of  laughter 
that  rose  to  a  small  scream:  "Po7i — soul — it's — 
Char — ley!'  he  sang  out,  and  dropped  away  astern. 
I  heard  his  engine  begin  again,  a,  note  like  an  insect; 
and  he  fled  away  towards  Gunfleet.  And  that  was 
all! 

"I  stood  there  dazed  for  a  moment.  In  spite  of 
the  suddenness  of  it,  I  don't  think  I  had  any 
doubt  it  was  my  brother.  I  saw  his  big  hook  nose 
sticking  out  of  his  fur  cap  between  the  horrible 
goggles,  his  body  craning  forward  under  the  wings. 
And  the  voice,  the  wailing,  sneering,  screaming 
laugh,  ^Charley!' — that  was  him  right  enough.  My 
brother! 

"I  stepped  along  the  gangway  to  the  bridge,  just 
as  the  Second  Mate  took  the  telescope  from  his 
eye  and  laid  it  in  the  rack.  He  saw  me  and  leaned 
over  the  rail  beckoning. 

"'Say,  Mister  Chief,  what  the  blazes  was  that?' 
he  whispered. 

"'Didn't  you  see  it?'  I  asked.  I  knew  he  had 
been  dozing  on  the  lee  side  of  the  chart-room. 

"*See  it!  I  heard  something!'  he  says.  *Was  it 
you  calling  Charley?'  His  name's  Charley,  you  see; 
Charley  Phillips. 

"'No,'  I  said.  'I  didn't  see  anything.  You  must 
have  been  asleep,  Mr.  Pliillips.' 


320  ALIENS 

*'He  looked  at  me,  rather  raw  about  the  gills, 
took  a  look  at  the  Gunfleet  Light  and  bent  down 
again  to  me. 

"*Did  you  see  anything?*  He  waved  his  hand 
towards  the  Essex  coast.  'Yes,'  I  said.  *  Green 
lights.' 

"'Oh,  that  was  the  Harwich  boat,'  he  says.  *I 
know  that.  She's  gone.  Must  have  been  going 
twenty-two  knots.' 

"'It  was  an  aeroplane,'  I  said,  whispering,  'flew 
past.' 

"'Eh!*  says  he.  I  said  it  again.  He  straightens 
up  and  takes  a  turn  up  and  down  the  bridge. 

"'You'd  better  watch  out,'  I  said.  'It  may  come 
back.' 

"'I  am  watching  out!*  says  he,  rather  savage. 
Til  take  care  of  all  the  aeroplanes  about.  Chief.' 

"I  went  back  then  and  took  another  look  round 
with  my  glasses,  but  I  saw  nothing  but  a  couple  of 
coasting  steamers  in  shore.  I  stepped  down  into 
the  mess-room  and  looked  through  the  slit  of  the 
Fourth's  door.  Funny  coincidence!  He  was  on  his 
settee  in  his  pyjamas,  asleep,  and  on  his  stomach 
was  a  magazine  he'd  been  reading,  a  magazine  with 
a  coloured  cover  showing  an  aeroplane  dropping  a 
bursting  shell  on  a  man-o'-war. 

"I  lay  awake  for  a  long  time,  listening  to  the 
bells,  watching  Rosa's  picture  flickering  on  the 
bulkhead  as  the  screw  below  me  shook  the  ship. 
So  we'd  met  again!  I  couldn't  blame  the  Second 
Mate — I've  kept  the  grave-yard  watch  myself;  I 
couldn't  blame  Mister  Charley  Phillips.     But  what 


ALIENS  321 

would  he  have  said  if  I'd  told  him  my  brother  was 
on  that  machine?  What  if  I'd  said  I'd  seen  wire- 
less sparks  spitting  above  it?    Humph! 

*'I  suppose  I  must  have  dozed  a  little,  for  the 
next  thing  I  remember  was  the  whoop  of  our  siren 
and  the  engines  going  dead  slow.  As  I  tumbled  out 
to  go  down  it  was  three  o'clock.  The  Third  was 
standing  by  the  reversing  gear  and  I  saw  by  the 
vacuum  gauge  that  the  temperature  of  the  sea  was 
down  to  forty-eight  degrees.  *Fog,  sir?'  says  the 
Third.  *Aye,'  I  said.  'Shut  your  injection  a  little. 
We're  off  the  Goodwins,  I  suppose.'  Everything 
was  all  right,  so  I  climbed  up  to  look.  The  Old 
Man  was  out  on  deck  and  they  were  heaving  the 
lead.  Every  minute  the  siren  gave  a  mournful 
whoop  and  the  slow  thump  of  the  propeller  made 
me  miserable.  I  leaned  over  the  side,  thinking  of 
my  brother  and  his  aeroplane.  For  the  life  of  me 
I  couldn't  be  sure  it  wasn't  all  a  dream.  The  thin 
whine  of  the  siren  sounded  very  like  his  cry  of 
'Charley!*  I  heard  the  Old  Man  bark  something, 
heard  the  tinkling  of  the  telegraph  and  the  siren 
bellowed  again.  We  were  going  full  speed  astern! 
Just  as  I  turned  away  from  the  bulwarks  I  saw  a 
green  light,  the  starboard  light  of  a  coaster,  rush 
past.  I  could  hear  some  one  shouting  through  a 
megaphone  on  the  bridge.  She  must  have  been 
awful  close — went  past  our  stern  with  an  inch  to 
spare  as  we  swung.  And  then  all  was  quiet  again 
as  the  engines  stopped  and  went  ahead  dead  slow. 
I  went  down  and  got  my  overcoat  and  a  pipe. 
The  Second  was  putting  on  his  clothes.     *Ah,  you 


322  ALIENS 

may  as  well,'  I  said.     'It's  thick  all  right.'    I  like  a 
man  that  don't  have  to  be  called. 

"All  night  we  crawled  along.  You  see,  the 
Straits  of  Dover  are  very  like  Piccadilly  Circus. 
You  never  know  who  you  may  run  against  in  a  fog, 
it's  so  crowded  and  the  company  is  so  mixed.  About 
breakfast  time  the  Old  Man  judged  by  soundings 
he  was  abeam  of  Dungeness  and  we  Went  half- 
speed.    The  fog  lifted  about  Beachy  Head. 

"So  you  see,  the  fact  and  the  fiction  was  so 
mixed  up  in  my  mind  that  by  the  time  we  got  into 
the  Western  Ocean  I  didn't  feel  sure  which  was 
which.  The  Second  Mate  never  said  a  word  more 
about  green  lights,  for  if  he  allowed  there  was  an 
aeroplane  about  on  the  middle  watch  the  Skipper 
would  naturally  ask  him  why  he  didn't  see  it. 
And  then  what  mixed  things  in  my  mind  still  more 
was  my  picking  up  the  Fourth's  magazine  in  the 
mess-room  one  day  and  reading  that  yarn.  I  was 
going  to  tell  you  about  this;  but  merely  to  show 
you  how  my  brother  impressed  me  that  I  dreamt 
about  him  at  sea.  But  now — it  seems  I  didn't 
dream  it  after  all. 

"I'm  not  surprised,"  went  on  Mr.  Carville,  after 
a  slight  pause  to  stir  up  the  ash  in  his  pipe  with  a 
pen-knife,  "not  surprised.  My  brother  had  it  in 
him  always.  Quite  apart  from  any  personal  feeling 
I  might  have  for  him  or  against,  I  was  always  pre- 
pared, so  to  say,  to  see  him  doing  something  big. 
His  trouble  with  his  season-ticket  and  liis  bigger 
trouble  that  put  him  in  gaol  were  very  much  on  a 
par.     He  always  had  an   unconventional   way   of 


ALIENS  323 

getting  what  he  wanted.  It  was  no  use  talking  to 
him;  he  simply  doesn't  see  what  you  mean.  I — 
I  wonder  what  he's  going  to  do  next." 

"He  might  pay  a  visit  over  here,"  I  said  tenta- 
tively.   Mr.  Carville  gave  me  a  quick  glance. 

"I  shouldn't  like  that  at  all,"  he  said,  shaking 
his  head.  "You  see  ...  I  might  be  away  .  .  . 
I  shouldn't  like  it  at  all." 

He  was  obviously  disturbed,  and  I  felt  that  the 
suggestion  had  been  unwise.  Obviously  it  would 
not  do  to  tell  him  that  his  brother  knew  where  he 
was. 

"So  far,"  he  remarked  presently,  "my  little 
boys  don't  know  anything  about  their  uncle.  I've 
no  wish  that  they  should.  I  want  them  to  grow 
up  in  this  country  without  any  connection  with 
Europe  at  all.  Any  debt  they  owe  to  Europe  can 
be  paid  later.  My  brother  couldn't  help  them  at 
all.     And  Rosa " 

Mr.  Carville  stood  up  to  go.  The  cover  for 
Payne's  Monthly  caught  his  eye  and  he  nodded 
approvingly. 

"That's  clever,"  he  said.  "I  wish  sometimes 
I'd  gone  in  for  doing  things,  like  you.  As  you  said, 
a  man's  mind  rusts,  gets  seized,  if  it  isn't  working. 
I  did  think  of  doing  something  with  a  few  papers 
I've  got  in  my  berth  on  the  Raritan,  but — I  don't 
know." 

"Why  not  let  me  have  a  look  at  them?"  I  said. 
"I  might  act  as  a  sort  of  an  agent  for  you,  unpaid 
of  course " 

"Much  obliged,"  said  Mr.  Carville  placidly,  "but 


324  ALIENS 

I  don't  know  as  you  need  bother.  I  threw  a  book 
over  the  side  once." 

"A  manuscript!"  I  said,  aghast.  He  nodded, 
looking  at  his  boots.  "I  thought  a  lot  of  it  once; 
called  it  Dreams  on  a  Sea-Weed  Bed,  and  got  a  funny 
faced  little  girl  in  Nagasaki  to  type  it  for  me.  But 
one  voyage,  when  I'd  been  reading  a  book  called 
New  Grub  Street,  I  got  sick  of  the  whole  thing  and 
dumped  it  in  the  Java  Sea,  haK  way  between  Soura- 
baja  and  Singapore." 

"I  can't  approve  of  that,  IVIr.  Carville,"  I  said, 
standing  up  and  confronting  him.  "A  foolish 
thing  to  do!" 

"How's  that?  It  might  just  as  well  be  twenty 
fathoms  deep  in  the  Java  Sea  as  twenty  volumes 
deep  in  the  British  Museum. f*    Eh!    It  was  mine." 

"Oh  yes,  yes;  but  it's  hardly  fair  to  deprive  the 
world  of  it." 

"Humph!  I  guess  the  world  won't  sweat,  sir. 
It  would  be  a  good  thing  if  a  lot  of  modern  stuff 
was  dumped.  Some  of  the  authors  too,  by  your 
leave!" 

"I  quite  agree,"  I  said.  We  had  been  to  see 
Brieux'  Damaged  Goods  in  New  York  a  week  or  so 
before,  and  we  were  in  the  mood  to  sympathize 
with  Mr.  Carville's  doubt  of  modern  tendencies. 
He  stood  by  the  door  of  the  studio,  one  hand  on 
the  jamb,  the  other  under  his  coat,  the  plain  gold 
albert  stretched  across  his  broad  person,  the  light 
shining  on  his  smooth  pink  forehead  as  he  looked 
dowTi  at  his  crossed  legs.  It  has  occurred  to  me  from 
time  to  time  that  this  unobtrusive  man,  with  his 


ALIENS  325 

bizarre  record  and  eccentric  mentality,  was  evolving 
behind  the  mask  of  his  mediocrity  a  new  type. 
That  this  process  was  only  haK  deliberate  I  am 
ready  to  believe.  A  man  who  disciplines  his  soul 
by  flinging  overboard  the  manuscript  of  a  book 
does  not  thereby  slay  his  imagination.  He  only 
drives  it  inward.  When  we  first  came  to  America 
we  planted  all  our  seeds  in  the  garden  too  deep 
and  they  grew  downward,  assuming  awful  and 
grotesque  forms.  In  some  such  way  Mr.  Car- 
ville's  imagination  was  working  within  him,  fash- 
ioning, as  I  say,  a  new  type.  I  insist  upon  this, 
inasmuch  as  beyond  it  I  have  no  mementoes  of 
him.  Both  he  and  his  are  gone  from  our  imme- 
diate observation,  and  though  we  may  hear  from 
him  again,  as  a  ship  passing  in  the  night,  a  rotund 
meditative  figure  pacing  the  deck  of  some  out- 
bound freighter,  so  far  I  remember  him  mainly 
by  this  intellectual  inversion.  For  him  the  sup- 
pression of  passion  had  become  a  passion;  for  him 
individuality  was  cloaked  by  the  commonplace. 
In  his  way  he  made  a  contribution  to  art;  he  had 
hinted  at  the  possibilities  underlying  a  new  com- 
bination of  human  characters.  He  had  given 
strange  hostages  to  Fortune,  so  that  Fortune 
hardly  knew  what  to  do  with  them.  It  is  possible 
that  the  abrupt  and  dramatic  disappearance  from 
his  life  (I  refer  to  his  brother)  has  slackened  the  in- 
tensity of  his  hold  upon  this  idea;  but  I  do  not 
know. 

He  left  us  that  evening  quietly  and  without  fuss. 
He  had,  in  a  notable  degree,  the  neat  movements 


326  ALIENS 

and  economy  of  gesture  which  I  can  imagine  indis- 
pensable to  those  who  live  in  confined  cabins 
and  take  their  walks  upon  decks  beneath  which 
their  shipmates  sleep.  In  a  quiet  indescribable 
way  there  was  manifest  in  his  demeanour  a  gentle 
repudiation  of  all  things  traditionally  English.  You 
could  not  possibly  imagine  him  vociferating  "God 
save  the  King"  or  "Sons  of  the  Sea."  With  a 
simple  dignity  he  had  assumed  the  dun  livery  of 
the  alien,  and  there  was  to  me  a  certain  fineness  in 
the  sentiment  that  forbade  any  flaunting  of  his 
nationality  in  the  faces  of  his  native-born  children. 
And  in  the  midst  of  our  musings,  just  before  we 
turned  out  the  lights,  it  occurred  to  me  quite  sud- 
denly that,  since  he  had  finished  his  story,  it  was 
quite  possible  that  we  should  not  see  him  again. 


CHAPTER  XII 

The  Vision  from  the  Kills* 

FOR  a  long  time  that  night  I  lay  watching  the 
gem-like  glitter  of  the  lights  that  fringed 
the  eastern  horizon.  A  strong  north  wind 
shook  the  house,  sweeping  the  clouds  before 
it  with  a  contemptuous  energy  that  had  in  it  a  prom- 
ise of  frost  on  the  morrow.  As  the  stars  rose  it  was 
as  though  the  lights  of  the  city  themselves  were 
rising  into  the  clear  sky,  emblems  of  the  vast  and 
serene  power  that  had  sent  them  forth.  High  above 
the  level  constellations  soared  the  two  great  bea- 
cons of  the  Metropolitan  and  Woolworth  towers, 
like  the  mast-head  lights  of  some  enormous  vessel, 
while  away  northward,  almost  hidden  by  the  swing- 
ing limbs  of  our  elm,  the  occulting  flash  on  the 
Times  Building  added  a  disquieting  element  to  the 
otherwise  peaceful  scene.  For  me  at  least  the 
glamour,  the  mystery  and  the  beauty  of  that  amaz- 
ing city  had  never  worn  thin.  For  me,  after  a 
day  in  her  roaring  streets,  after  a  scramble  in  her 
lotteries,  there  ever  comes  a  recrudescence  of 
that  wonder  with  which  I  beheld  my  first  view  of 
her  from  the  Jersey  shore.  The  cynical  American 
says,  I  know  not  with  what  truth,  that  the  alien, 
clutching  his  bundle  and  gazing  with  anxious, 
frightened  eyes  toward  the  mountainous  masonry 

*  The  word  "Kill"  is  Dutch  in  origin  and  signifies  very  much  the 
same  as  Kyle  (Scot),  meaning  a  deep  arm  of  the  sea. 

827 


328  ALIENS 

of  Manhattan,  catching  sight  of  the  green  sun-lit 
image  of  Liberty  with  her  benign  unfaltering  re- 
gard, holds  his  breath  and  feels  within  his  bosom  a 
fierce  but  short-lived  ecstasy  of  joy.  For  one  brief 
instant  (I  still  quote  the  cynical  American)  faith 
and  hope  flame  in  his  heart  and  the  future  lies 
before  him  as  a  shining  pathway  of  industry  and 
peace. 

For  me,  however,  the  impression  that  New  York 
had  made  was  neither  so  unpractical  nor  so  evanes- 
cent. For  me  there  was  reserved  a  certain  Jear 
of  those  multitudes  and  those  heaven-kissing  tow- 
ers, an  apprehension  that  even  a  species  of  victory 
after  defeat  had  not  sufficed  to  dethrone.  Call  it 
perhaps  awe,  mingled  with  homage  to  the  indom- 
itable spirit  of  the  race,  rather  than  fear. 

This  I  felt,  and  every  visit  to  the  heart  of  the 
city  quickened  it,  stirring  my  imagination  to  some 
fresh  effort,  and  revealing  some  new  phase  of  the 
exhaustless  energy  of  America. 

It  was  only  natural  that  in  the  course  of  my 
musings  it  should  strike  me  as  strange  that  Mr. 
Carville  displayed  no  shadow  either  of  reverence  or 
dislike  for  a  place  which  impressed  itself  upon  me 
more  even  than  San  Francisco  or  Chicago.  It 
seemed  to  me  strange  that  a  man  so  sensitive  to 
detail,  so  conscious  of  the  scant  poetry  of  the  com- 
monplace, should  have  no  feeling  for  that  astonish- 
ing accident  which  we  call  New  York  City.  That 
he  was  not  aware  of  her  I  refused  absolutely  to 
credit.  If  he  could  feel  the  beauty  of  Genoa  and 
the  immensity  of  London,  he  must  necessarily  be 


ALIENS  329 

conscious  of  the  sublimity  of  Manhattan.  I  re- 
gretted that  I  had  not  led  him  to  speak  of  this.  I 
regretted  the  possibility  of  seeing  him  no  more. 
I  felt  a  pertinacious  curiosity  about  him,  as  a  man 
who  could  contemplate  with  equanimity  a  spectacle 
that  for  me  held  always  an  inscrutable  problem. 
To  the  disgust  of  the  cynical  American  I  always 
waved  aside  Washington  and  even  Boston,  ignored 
even  that  mysterious  bourne,  the  "Middle  West," 
and  claimed  that  he  who  found  the  secret  of  New 
York  had  also  found  the  secret  of  America.  As  I 
drowsed  that  night  I  registered  a  vague  resolve 
to  see  Mr.  Carville  again  and  broach  the  subject  to 
him.  I  felt  sure  that  in  some  way  or  other  he 
would  add  something  to  my  knowledge,  not  only  of 
the  city,  but  of  himself. 

I  became  aware  of  Mac's  voice  in  my  ear,  and 
struggling  to  rise,  saw  that  he  held  in  his  hand  a 
letter  bearing  a  special-delivery  stamp.  It  is  one 
of  the  terrors,  and  no  doubt  advantages  of  the 
American  mail,  that  a  letter  may  descend  upon 
one  at  unexpected  hours.  You  may  be  locking  up 
for  the  night,  or  enjoying  your  beauty  sleep  in  the 
early  mom,  when  a  breathless  messenger  will  ham- 
mer at  your  door  with  a  letter,  quite  possibly  con- 
taining a  bill.  Such  a  missive  my  friend  held  over 
me  like  a  Damocles  sword,  between  thumb  and 
finger,  and  awaited  the  news  with  interest. 

It  did  not,  however,  contain  a  bill.  It  was  a 
request  from  an  advertising  agency  to  proceed  to 
Pleasant  Plains,  S.  I.,  and  interview  the  president 


830  ALIENS 

of  a  realty  company  who  desired  what  we  call 
tersely  enough  a  "write-up,"  an  essentially  modern 
development  of  English  Literature,  in  my  opinion. 
Mac  maintains  with  stubborn  ingenuity  that  Doctor 
Johnson  and  Goldsmith  did  "write-ups,"  just  as 
Shakespeare  wrote  melodramas,  and  Turner  did 
"bird's-eye  views."  I  make  no  such  claim.  The 
point  is  that  a  write-up  brings  in  fifty  dollars, 
while  sonnets  are  a  drug  in  the  market.  For  this 
reason  I  sprang  out  of  bed  with  unusual  alacrity 
and  prepared  to  catch  the  eight  o'clock  express. 

"It  may  mean  a  'bird's-eye,'"  I  remarked,  as  I 
bolted  my  breakfast. 

"You  can  make  the  suggestion,"  returned  Mac, 
passing  me  half  a  grape  fruit.  "There's  no  need 
to  introduce  either  mosquitoes  or  ice-floes  into  a 
'bird's-eye.'"  This  in  reference  to  New  Yorkers' 
objections  to  Staten  Island. 

"I  shan't  mention  them  in  the  booklet  unless 
they  specially  ask  me  to,"  I  said  with  a  grin.  We 
are  always  facetious  when  a  new  job  comes  up.  I 
should  not  be  surprised  if  the  immortals  were  much 
tlie  same. 

Catching  the  eight  o'clock  express  is  with  us 
rather  a  legend  than  a  solid  fact,  in  spite  of  our 
vaunted  breakfast  at  half  after  seven.  One  has 
to  shave,  collect  the  necessary  papers,  put  on  one's 
boots,  pocket  tobacco  and  matches,  run  upstairs 
for  a  fresh  handkerchief,  things  that  somehow  or 
other  take  time.  As  a  rule  we  find  ourselves  half- 
way to  the  station,  running  breathlessly,  only  to 
find   that  we  have  two  left-hand  gloves,  or  that 


ALIENS  331 

some  vitally  important  document  has  been  left  be- 
hind. The  seasoned  commuter,  by  long  and  ar- 
duous practice,  eliminates  these  errors;  but  we, 
who  go  to  New  York  but  once  in  a  week  or  so,  are 
unskilled  in  early  morning  hustles,  and  generally 
see  the  tail-end  of  the  express  disappearing  in  the 
cutting.  This  morning,  however,  I  managed  to 
get  out  of  the  house  by  three  minutes  to  eight, 
sufficient  time  for  an  athlete  to  do  the  half-mile 
to  the  station.  With  a  silent  prayer  that  the  train 
might  be  a  few  minutes  overdue  I  raced  across 
the  lot  and  down  Pine  Street. 

I  saw,  as  I  hurried  down  the  straight  incline  of 
Walnut  Avenue,  that  I  was  in  time,  and  slackened 
my  pace  to  a  walk.  The  morning,  as  I  had  ex- 
pected, was  clear  and  cold;  a  sharp  frost  had  glazed 
the  puddles  in  the  roadway,  and  on  the  uplands 
of  the  further  bank  of  the  Pasayack  River  light 
patches  of  snow  lay  among  the  trees.  The  sun 
shone  gloriously  in  a  blue  sky,  and  a  keen  wind 
blew  the  leaves  into  swirling  eddies  about  the 
stoops  of  the  houses.  At  the  bottom  of  the  hill 
was  the  station,  a  small  low-roofed  structure  of 
wood.  Some  score  of  commuters  were  clustered 
about  it,  and  I  perceived,  seated  sedately  upon  a 
hand-truck,  his  feet  crossed,  his  corn-cob  drawing 
serenely,  and  his  brown-gloved  hands  holding  a 
copy  of  the  New  York  Daily  News,  none  other  than 
Mr.  Carville. 

He  raised  his  hand  in  salute  as  I  came  up.  I 
hurried  into  the  office  to  buy  a  ticket,  and  the 
train  came  in  as  I  came  out,  the  locomotive-bell 


332  ALIENS 

clanging  faintly  above  the  gasp  of  the  air-brakes 
and  the  blowing  of  steam. 

"Good  morning,"  I  said.    "You  are  away  early.'* 

We  climbed  into  the  smoker  and  took  a  seat  not 
likely  to  incommode  the  card-players. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  smiling,  "I  expect  we'll  be  going 
out  to-night,  you  see,  and  it  wouldn't  do  for  the 
Chief  to  miss  his  passage,  would  it?" 

"So  soon!"  I  said,  in  some  surprise. 

Mr.  Carville  gave  me  one  of  his  quick,  good- 
tempered  glances. 

"Soon.^"  he  echoed.  "Do  you  know,  sir,  how 
long  it  takes  to  load  the  Raritan?  Just  eight  hours. 
Humph!" 

Mr.  Carville  was  fond  of  using  this  ejaculation  of 
his  in  a  double  sense,  if  I  may  say  so.  As  he  spoke 
his  eyes  were  fixed  with  some  interest  upon  four 
of  our  neighbours,  who  had  seated  themselves  near 
us  and  had  laid  a  grey  mill-board  card-table  across 
their  knees.  Whether  it  was  the  card-table,  or  the 
extraordinary  speed  with  which  the  Raritan  was 
loaded,  that  excited  his  amusement,  I  am  unable 
to  decide.  I  was  too  familiar  with  the  American 
habit  of  gambling  in  trains  to  take  much  notice  of 
it.  It  is  possible  that  Mr.  Carville  was  less  sophisti- 
cated. 

"That,"  I  said,  "does  not  give  you  much  time 
on  shore." 

"No,"  he  said,  "it  doesn't.  Speaking  in  a  gen- 
eral way,  we're  glad  to' get  to  sea.  In  port,  at  this 
end  at  any  rate,  it's  one  continual  rush.  Shore 
peopk  have  very  little  consideration  for    sea-going 


ALIENS  333 

men.  They  come  and  bang  at  your  door  any  time, 
day  or  night.  You  may  be  changing  your  shift — 
don't  matter,  in  they  come.  Some  business  or 
other.  At  sea,"  he  conchided,  "we  do  have  a  httle 
peace." 

"Where  are  you  bound  for?"  I  asked,  opening 
my  paper. 

"Oh,  Savona  or  some  Riviera  port,  I  exp>ect. 
They  don't  give  us  our  orders  till  we're  off  Sandy 
Hook.  You're  going  to  New  York,  I  suppose,  sir, 
on  business.'*" 

"Not  exactly.  I'm  going  to  Staten  Island,"  I 
rephed,  "and  I  believe  this  is  the  quickest  way." 

He  regarded  me  with  astonishment. 

"Is  that  so.f*  I  suppose  you'll  be  taking  the 
ferry  to  St.  George,  then?" 

I  said  that  such  was  my  intention,  and  asked  why. 

"Why,  you  see,  I'm  going  that  way  myself,  to 
Communipaw.    The  Raritan  is  lying  down  there." 

"Dear  me!     It  never  struck  me "  I  began. 

He  laughed  quietly. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  don't  suppose,  if  you  asked 
a  thousand  New  Yorkers  where  such  and  such  a 
ship  was  loaded,  that  more  than  one  could  tell 
you.  They  know  the  Lusitania  lies  somewhere 
about  Eighteenth  Street  and  the  Oceanic's  next  to 
her,  and  that's  about  all.  It's  the  same  every- 
where. Ask  a  man  in  the  Strand  how  to  get  to 
Tidal  Basin;  he  won't  know  what  Tidal  Basin  is, 
let  alone  where  it  is.    As  for  an  oil-boat — Humph!" 

"I  shall  have  your  company,  then?"  I  said.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 


334  ALIENS 

"If  you  don't  object,  sir,"  he  said. 

"I  should  like  it  above  all  things,"  I  returned. 
"I  was  thinking  last  night  that  there  were  many- 
things  I  should  like  to  ask  you,  but  I  was  afraid 
that  possibly  you  might  not  visit  us  again  for  a 
long  time." 

"Not  at  all,"  he  said.  "I  was  very  glad  to  step 
in.  You've  got  an  atmosphere  ...  if  I  can  call 
it  that.  I  mean  there's  something  I  don't  get  on  a 
ship,  or  for  that  matter,  at  home  .  .  .  you  un- 
derstand.'^ Now  and  again  I  feel  I'd  like  to  talk 
to  people  who  do  understand." 

"That  reminds  me,"  I  said,  "that  I  have  been 
wondering  how  New  York  impresses  you.  I  think 
it  is  rather  wonderful  myself." 

Mr.  Carville  smoked  silently  for  a  few  moments 
while  the  card-players  pursued  their  games  and  the 
train  thundered  through  the  flat  swamps  of  River- 
side. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  it,"  he  asked,  "fr^m  the 
Narrows?" 

I  shook  my  head.  The  Campania  had  come  up 
in  a  dank  fog,  when  I  had  arrived  seven  years  be- 
fore. I  mentioned  the  customs  formalities  that 
keep  one  below  at  such  a  time.  Mr.  Carville 
smiled  gently. 

"I  always  think,"  he  said,  "that  for  an  artist, 
that  view  is  the  best,  because  it's  the  first.  I  was 
looking  at  that  picture  in  your  friend's  studio  last 
night;  that  one  of  New  York  from  Brooklyn,  and 
I  couldn't  help  noticing  how  heavy  he'd  made 
it.     See  what  I  mean.'*     He  was  too  close.     The 


ALIENS  335 

weight  of  the  buildings  gets  on  one's  mind.  That's 
the  trouble  with  Americans,  anyway.  They  show 
you  a  building  and  tell  you  the  weight  of  it,  and 
then  the  cost  of  it.  Even  women  are  judged  by 
their  weight.  Only  last  night  I  saw  in  the  papers 
something  about  a  suffragette.  They  said  she 
weighed  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds !  I  think  it  is 
a  mistake,  myself.  Tonnage  is  all  right  in  a  ship ;  but 
it  doesn't  signify  much,  either  in  a  city  or  a  woman." 

Rather  astonished,  I  agreed  that  this  was  sound 
aesthetic  doctrine. 

"Now,"  went  on  Mr.  Carville,  "if  you  ask  me 
how  New  York  impresses  me,  I  should  say  that  it 
reminds  me  of  Venice." 

The  train  stopped  at  Newark.  For  an  instant  I 
was  quite  unable  to  determine  whether  Mr.  Car- 
ville was  joking  or  not.  One  look  at  his  face,  how- 
ever, precluded  any  such  surmise.  I  waited  until 
the  doors  banged  and  the  train  was  moving  before 
I  said,  "In  what  way,  Mr.  Carville?" 

"Mind  you,  it  may  not  impress  you  in  any  way 
like  Venice " 

"I  regret  never  to  have  been  there,"  I  inter- 
rupted. 

"You  may,"  he  assented.  "You  may.  A  man 
can  do  easy  enough  without  ever  seeing  Naples; 
but  Venice ah!" 

"Yes,  I  can  imagine  that,"  I  said,  "but  in  what 
way ?" 

"Well,  I'll  show  you,  as  you're  going  to  St. 
George — San  Giorgio  as  you  might  say" — he 
chuckled — "and  you  can  tell  me  what  you  think." 


336  ALIENS 

I  fell  into  a  study  at  this,  a  study  that  lasted 
until  the  train  slid  slowly  into  Jersey  City  and  we 
joined  the  throng  that  were  hurrying  towards 
Chambers  Street  Ferry.  I  decided  to  let  the  mat- 
ter stand  over  for  the  moment.  It  would  not  do  to 
act  illiberally  towards  a  man  who  combined  a  knowl- 
edge of  sea-faring  with  Italian  literature,  and  who 
had  evidently  arrived,  however  unacademically,  at 
certain  original  judgments  and  criteria  of  life.  I 
offered  no  remarks  as  the  Erie  ferry  bore  us  swiftly 
across  the  glittering  and  congested  Hudson  to 
Chambers  Street,  and  I  observed  that  Mr.  Carville 
was  absorbed  in  watching  how  the  vessel  was 
piloted  among  the  traffic.  It  was  natural  that  his 
imagination  should  be  stirred  by  a  familiar  skill.  As 
we  crossed  the  bows  of  an  incoming  liner  I  saw 
his  eyes  sweep  over  her,  keen,  critical,  appraising. 
No  doubt  he  saw  many  things  that  escaped  my 
landward  vision.  For  me  ships  are  very  much 
alike.  I  expect  he  realized  this  and  forbore  to 
bewilder  me  with  matters  of  technical  interest.  I 
have  a  sneaking  appreciation  of  the  mystery  and 
beauty  of  a  ship  in  full  sail  on  the  open  sea,  an 
appreciation  I  scarcely  cared  to  reveal  to  an  en- 
gineer. He  stood  by  my  side  on  the  upper  deck, 
his  corn-cob  in  his  hand,  imperturbably  observant, 
a  miracle  of  detached  respectability.  And  he 
thought  New  York  like  Venice! 

Nor  did  we  talk  very  much  as  we  walked  quickly 
down  West  Street  to  the  Battery.  Once  he  looked 
at  his  watch  and  remarked  that  he  wanted  "to  be 
aboard   by   ten."      The   sun   shone   on   the   water 


ALIENS  337 

dazzlingly  as  we  rounded  the  end  of  Manhattan, 
showing  the  hull  of  the  Ellis  Island  ferry  a  black 
mass.  The  usual  crowd  of  foreigners  with  their 
dark  eyes  and  Slavic  features,  shoe-shine  boys, 
touts  and  officials  waited  around  the  entrance.  I 
put  my  hand  on  Mr.  Carville's  arm. 

"Our  steamer  isn't  in  yet,"  I  said.  "Suppose  we 
see  them  land." 

He  glanced  up  and  nodded,  and  we  paused. 

As  the  ferry  came  alongside  the  crowd  gradually 
drew  together  more  closely,  and  some,  who  had 
been  sitting  in  dejection  on  the  seats,  rose  and 
joined  us.  A  tall  policeman  walked  to  and  fro, 
keeping  us  back,  bending  his  head  to  hsten  to  a 
woman  with  a  baby.  Young  men  in  flashy  button- 
boots  and  extravagantly-cut  clothes  chuckled  among 
themselves,  while  two  serious-looking  men  talked 
German,  an  endless  argument.  Above  us  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  fluttered  and  snapped  in  the 
breeze,  and  the  trains  on  the  Elevated  Road  crawled 
carefully  round  the  curve.  Now  and  again  the 
deep  bellow  of  a  steamer's  whistle  smote  on  our 
ears,  smears  of  sound  on  the  persistent  roar  of  the 
city  behind  us.  The  feet  of  the  little  crowd  shuflBed 
as  they  shifted  to  get  a  better  view,  and  two  boys, 
chewing  gum,  climbed  on  the  seats  and  stood  up. 
A  small  girl  of  ten  or  so  sped  past  on  roller-skates, 
uttering  shrill  cries  to  a  companion  beyond  the 
grass-plot.  And  then  the  gates  opened  and  they 
came  out  to  us,  a  little  flock  of  frightened  animals, 
each  with  his  ticket  pinned  on  his  breast,  each 
looking  round  for  an  instant  as  sheep  do  when  let 


338  ALIENS 

out  of  a  pen,  instantly  herded  by  oflacials  in  peaked 
caps.  A  big,  unshaved  man  in  a  black  sheepskin 
cap  opened  his  arms  and  the  woman  with  the  baby 
hurried  to  him.  A  smart  girl  behind  us  pushed 
through  and  went  up  to  a  sullen-looking  old  man 
with  a  Derby  hat  and  a  high-arched  nose.  The 
boys  on  the  seat  exchanged  ribaldry  that  drew  the 
eyes  of  the  tall  policeman  to  them,  and  they  van- 
ished. The  little  crowd  of  aliens  began  to  move 
towards  the  East  Side  and  we  followed  as  far  as  the 
Staten  Island  Ferry.  I  turned  to  Mr.  Carville, 
thinking  he  might  have  some  comment  to  make. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  drew  out  his  little 
brass  tobacco-box. 

"Humph!"  he  said.  "They've  got  it  all  to 
come,"  and  began  to  pare  the  tobacco  into  his  hand. 
I  could  detect  no  sympathy  in  his  tone,  only  a  grim 
humour  and  contempt  for  the  credulity  of  those 
trembling  peasants  now  hurrying  to  their  doom. 
And  as  I  thought  of  this,  quite  suddenly  he  began 
to  talk  of  his  brother. 

"I've  often  wondered  what  Frank  would  have 
made  of  all  this,"  he  said,  waving  his  hand  towards 
the  sweep  of  the  Brooklyn  Bridge.  "Not  that  I'd 
like  him  to  come  near  me  and  mine,  but  just  out 
of  curiosity,  I've  wondered." 

"I  should  say  he  would  be  likely  to  get  on  well," 
I  said. 

"You're  right — he  would!  He  would  take  hold 
right  away  and  as  they  say  here  get  away  with  it. 
He's  a  citizen  of  the  world,  is  Frank.  He'd  be  on 
Fifth  Avenue  or  in  Sing  Sing  within  a  twelvemonth. 


ALIENS  339 

But  there's  no  need  for  him  to  come  to  America. 
He's  fallen  on  his  feet  again  apparently  in  London. 
I  hope  he  stops  there." 

"You  seem  to  have  some  secret  fear  of  your 
brother,  Mr.  Carville "  I  began. 

"Secret.'*  There's  nothing  secret  about  it,  sir. 
I'm  scared  of  him.  You  don't  know  him,  so  you 
can't  understand  how  you'd  feel  about  it.  I  tell 
you  the  mere  presence  of  that  chap  in  the  room 
unsettles  people.  He's  a  disturbing  influence. 
Even  strangers  notice  it.  Suppose  he  was  over 
here,  and  me  away  in  the  Mediterranean?  You've 
no  idea  how  he  can  talk  and  wheedle  and  explain 
everything  to  suit  his  own  ends.    I  do." 

I  did  not  say  so,  but  I  understood  Mr.  Carville's 
feelings.  Cecil's  letters  bore  him  out  very  com- 
pletely. 

"There's  another  thing  you  may  not  appreciate. 
When  you're  married  you  will,  no  doubt.  A  man 
and  his  wife  aren't  always  on  the  same  dead  level 
terms  with  each  other.  Little  differences,  lasting 
perhaps  an  hour  or  a  minute,  sometimes  till  break- 
fast, crop  up.  Even  in  a  case  like  mine,  here  to-day 
and  gone  to-morrow,  we  can  get  on  each  other's 
nerves.  There's  friction  in  every  machine  .  .  . 
unavoidable.    You  understand  me,  sir.^^" 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "As  well  as  a  bachelor  can,  I 
think  I  appreciate  your  point.  You  mean  that 
since  you  can't  foresee  these  minor  affairs  and 
since  you  may  leave  home  before  the  clouds  roll 
by  .   .   ." 

"That's  just  it!    Imagine  a  man  like  Frank  liv- 


340  ALIENS 

ing  next  door  say,  a  man  who  has  known  Rosa, 
as  I  told  you   .    .    .  See?" 

As  we  stepped  upon  the  ferry  I  noticed  that  his 
features  were  sharp  and  bore  the  impress  of  a  quite 
unusual  secret  care.  I  felt  guiltily  that  we  had 
been  unwise  to  tell  so  much  to  the  painter-cousin. 
Who  could  tell  what  it  might  not  lead  to,  even  after 
so  long  an  interval,  with  so  incalculable  a  man  as 
this  brother.' 

With  the  bellow  of  the  whistle  Mr.  Carville's 
face  cleared  and  assumed  its  wonted  placidity. 
The  deck  trembled  as  the  screw  began  to  revolve, 
and  imperceptibly  we  moved  out  towards  Gover- 
nor's Island.  It  was  just  here,  I  think,  as  we  began 
our  little  six-mile  journey  to  St.  George,  that  a 
sudden  illumination  came  to  me.  I  understood 
Mr.  Carville's  reason  for  waiting  instead  of  explain- 
ing his  impression  of  New  York.  He  gave  me 
credit,  apparently,  for  the  ability  to  find  it  out  for 
myself. 

The  vessel  was  going  swiftly  now  over  the  shining 
waters  of  New  York  Bay.  To  the  left  lay  the  low 
and  sombre  buildings  of  Governor's  Island;  to  the 
right  the  prison-like  pile  of  Ellis  Island  showed 
red  in  the  sunlight.  On  either  side  the  shores 
fell  away  from  us,  leaving  Bartholdi's  statue,  for 
a  brief  moment,  the  dominant  note  in  the  scene. 
Quickly  we  hurried  by,  and  Black  Tom,  with  his 
fringe  of  cranes  and  stacks,  his  dark  panoply  of 
low-lying  smoke,  was  revealed.  Before  us  uprose 
the  wooded  heights  of  Staten  Island,  and  far  down 
the  Narrows  a  glimpse  of  the  blue  Atlantic.     A 


ALIENS  341 

couple  of  tramp  steamers,  one  with  much  red  paint 
on  her  bows,  were  coming  up  past  us,  and  I  noticed 
the  Red  Ensign  was  flying  from  the  poop.  With 
large  gestures  Mr.  Carville's  arm  swept  the  horizon, 
indicating  the  salient  points.  Almost  before  I  was 
aware  of  it  we  were  entering  the  ferry  station  and 
he  was  calling  my  attention  to  the  chimneys  and 
buildings  on  the  Communipaw  shore. 

"Now,"  said  he,  as  we  emerged  upon  the  street, 
"your  road  lies  down  the  coast,  but  if  you  have  an 
hour  to  spare,  you  might  come  over  and  look  at  the 
ship.  We'll  take  the  trolley  to  New  Brighton  and 
ferry  across  from  there.    But  of  course " 

"With  pleasure,"  I  said  hastily.  It  occurred  to 
me  that  I  could  do  worse  than  visit  Mr.  Carville's 
ship.    We  boarded  a  trolley-car. 

"You  see,"  said  Mr.  Carville,  "I'm  interested  in 
Staten  Island.  In  a  way  it's  very  English.  About 
a  year  ago  I  bought  a  lot  up  at  Richmond  Bridge. 
The  house  will  be  ready  in  the  spring  and  we'll  move 
in.  I've  had  a  fancy  for  a  long  while  to  have  a  home 
of  my  own.  We  did  think  of  buying  in  your  part, 
but  it's  rather  a  long  way  for  me,  besides  being 
dear." 

"You'll  be  leaving  Van  Diemen's  Avenue.''"  I 
said.     He  nodded. 

"Sure.  The  wife's  not  very  anxious  to  stay  out 
there.  She's  funny  in  some  ways.  Thinks  there's 
a  prejudice  against  her." 

"I  assure  you— — "  I  began. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  you,  sir.  She  means  in  the 
stores.    She's  heard  things   .    .    .   Women  are  quick 


342  ALIENS 

to  take  offence.  She  has  her  own  way  of  living 
and  it's  a  good  way.  We  shouldn't  like  to  feel  we 
weren't  wanted.  And  you  know,  in  your  parts, 
there's  a  good  deal  of  gentility  creeping  in.  I  was 
reading  the  local  paper  last  night  .  ,  .  Mrs.  This 
and  Mrs.  That  entertaining  to  bridge,  and  so  on! 
Humph!" 

The  car  jingled  and  swayed  round  the  corners, 
keeping  close  to  the  shore,  and  pulled  up  with  a 
jerk  at  New  Brighton.  Across  the  narrow  belt  of 
water  I  could  see  the  sterns  of  many  ships. 

"Here  we  are,"  said  Mr.  Carville.  "The  launch 
starts  down  there." 

A  stiff  breeze  was  blowing  and  we  were  occupied 
with  our  hats  until  we  reached  the  Communipaw 
side.  Mr.  Carville  muttered  a  warning  about  no 
smoking  " .  .  .  five  hundred  dollars  fine  .  .  . 
necessary,  you  see,"  and  I  saw  his  corn-cob  no 
more  until  we  reached  his  room. 

"There  she  is,"  he  remarked,  indicating  two  very 
red  funnels  projecting  above  a  roof.  "That's  the 
Raritan.^* 

A  faint  smell  of  petroleum  was  in  the  air  as  we 
threaded  our  way  among  the  blue-ended  barrels  and 
lengths  of  oily  hose.  In  one  way  this  ship  of  Mr. 
Carville's  was  novel  to  me.  There  was  about  her 
decks  no  noise  of  cranes  lifting  cargo,  no  open 
hatchways,  no  whiffs  of  steam  or  screaming  of 
pulley-blocks,  with  huge  bales  of  merchandise 
swinging  in  mid-air.  As  we  ascended  the  accom- 
modation ladder  I  saw  nothing  save  a  young  man 
with  thick  gauntlets  standing  guard  over  an  iron. 


ALIENS  343 

wheel  valve  in  a  big  pipe  that  ran  along  the  deck. 
A  stout,  iron-grey  man  in  uniform  was  leaning 
against  the  sky-light  on  the  poop-deck  as  we  came 
past  the  funnels.  With  a  slight  bashfulness  IVIr. 
Carville  turned,  and  making  a  vague  introductory 
gesture,  pronounced  our  names.  I  caught  the 
words  "Chief  Officer"  and  "come  to  have  a  look 
round!"  There  was  a  httle  further  parley,  in 
which  the  "Old  Man,"  "stores,"  and  "The  Second" 
bore  some  part.  I  did  not  pay  much  attention  to 
the  conversation,  to  tell  the  truth.  I  was  looking 
northward  across  New  York  Bay  and  comprehend- 
ing the  significance  of  Mr.  Carville's  parallel  be- 
tween Manhattan  and  the  City  of  the  Lagoons. 
For  a  moment  I  forgot  that  I  was  standing  on  the 
deck  of  a  ship.  From  my  lacustrine  vantage  the 
whole  of  the  wide  harbour  lay  in  view,  the  more 
distant  edge  of  Long  Island  forming  an  irregular 
and  dusky  line  betwixt  the  blue  waters  and  the 
bluer  sky.  In  the  middle  distance  stood  the  statue 
of  Liberty,  islanded  in  the  incoming  tide-way, 
while  away  beyond,  rising  '  in  superb  splendour 
from  a  pearlj^^  haze,  the  innumerable  towers  of 
Manhattan  floated  and  gleamed  before  my  eyes. 
Irresistibly  there  came  to  me  a  memory  of  Turner's 
Venetian  masterpieces,  and  I  knew  that  even  that 
great  magician  would  have  seized  upon  the  scene 
before  me  with  avidity,  would  have  delighted  in 
the  fairy-like  threads  of  the  bridges,  the  poetic 
groupings  of  the  vast  buildings,  and  the  innumer- 
able fenestrations  of  the  campanili.'  One  by  one 
half-forgotten  fragments  of  Byron  came  back  to  me 


344  ALIENS 

as  I  looked  out  across  the  wide  lagoon,  I  thought 
of  Venice  "throned  on  her  hundred  Isles,"  of  him 
who  said, 

"I  loved  her  from  my  boyhood;  she  to  me 
Was  as  a  fairy  city  of  the  heart, 
Rising  like  water-columns  from  the  sea,  ■ 

Of  joy  the  sojourn  and  of  wealth  the  mart." 

One  by  one,  moreover,  there  came  before  me 
still  more  convincing  evidence  that  this  casual 
analogy  had  in  it  a  deeper  significance,  that  here 
the  Queen  of  the  Adriatic  was  indeed  resuscitated 
and  the  Venetian  Republic  born  to  a  sublimer 
destiny.  Surely  the  same  indomitable  spirit,  the 
same  high  courage,  that  had  reared  that  wondrous 
city  out  of  the  sea,  was  here  before  me,  piling 
story  upon  story,  pinnacle  beyond  pinnacle,  till 
our  old-world  hearts  sickened  and  our  unaccus- 
tomed brains  grew  dizzy  at  the  sight. 

For  a  time — I  know  not  how  long — I  stood  with 
my  hand  on  the  rail,  looking  out  upon  that  vision 
from  the  Kills.  I  heard  Mr.  Carville's  voice  behind 
me,  and  I  turned. 

"What  do  you  think,  sir?"  he  said,  and  waved 
his  hand. 

"You  are  right,"  I  replied  in  a  low  tone.  "You 
are  certainly  right.  As  for  your  San  Giorgio,^'  I 
smiled,  "I'm  afraid,  INIr.  Carville,  you  are  a  cleverer 
man  than  I  thought  you!" 

"Come  down  and  have  a  smoke,"  he  said.  "I've 
some  letters  to  see  to." 

We  descended  the  companion-way  and  crossed  a 


ALIENS  345 

large  cabin  with  berths  all  round.  Mr.  Carville 
selected  a  Yale  key  from  his  bunch  and  opened  his 
door.  A  young  man  in  a  soiled  serge  suit  came  out 
of  the  next  room  with  some  letters. 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Carville,  hanging  up  his  Derby 
hat.  "How's  things,  mister?"  and  he  took  the 
letters. 

The  young  man  addressed  as  mister  made  several 
incoherent  remarks  of  a  technical  nature,  and  with 
a  glance  in  my  direction  withdrew. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Mr.  Carville,  shutting  the  door. 
"You'll  excuse  me  for  a  minute.'^" 

I  sat  down  on  a  red  plush  settee  while  my  host 
settled  into  a  wicker  easy  chair  by  a  small  desk. 
The  room  by  our  computation  would  be  small,  yet 
I  perceived  that  Mr.  Carville  had  within  reach  of 
his  hand  almost  every  convenience  of  civilization. 
At  his  elbow  were  a  telephone  and  a  speaking  tube; 
just  above  him  an  electric  fan.  Electric  lights 
were  placed  all  over  the  room.  His  bed  lay  below 
the  port-holes  and  a  wash-basin  of  polished  ma- 
hogany was  folded  up  beside  the  bed.  On  the 
table  were  cigars  and  whisky.  And  between  the 
bed  and  the  wardrobe,  on  four  shelves,  were  ranged 
some  two  hundred  volumes;  even  for  a  landsman  a 
respectable  library. 

He  sat  for  some  moments  reading  his  letters  with 
patient  attention,  pinching  his  lower  lip  between 
thumb  and  finger.  My  estimate  of  him  had  under- 
gone several  changes  since  leaving  the  Battery; 
since  leaving  deck,  even.  I  felt  somehow  that  this 
quiet,  sedate  person  was  no  longer  apologetic  in  his 


346  ALIENS 

attitude  towards  me.  Here  he  was  master,  and  a 
subtle  alteration  of  his  demeanour  indicated  this 
to  me.  He  sat  there,  as  I  watched  him,  solid  and 
secure  by  inalienable  right  of  succession,  a  son  of 
that  stern,  imaginative  adventurer,  his  father;  a 
son,  moreover,  of  that  sea  which  he  served  from 
year  to  year.  I  looked  up  at  the  photograph  of 
his  wife  which  he  had  mentioned,  a  photograph  set 
in  silver.  The  soft  shadows  of  the  platinotype 
suited  Mrs.  Carville.  Evidently  this  had  been 
taken  about  the  time  of  her  marriage;  the  fine 
modelling  of  her  face  and  the  poise  of  her  head  were 
instinct  with  youth.  In  her  eyes  I  fancied  some- 
thing of  the  mild  expression  with  which  she  accom- 
panied her  remark,  "He  is  a  good  man."  On  either 
side  of  the  silver  frame  were  small  pictures  of  the 
boys. 

Mr.  Carville  put  the  two  letters  in  a  wire  clip 
and  offered  me  a  cigar. 

"Now  you  can  see  for  yourself,"  said  he,  "where 
I  live."  He  laughed.  "I'm  one  of  the  few  people 
who  haven't  got  a  bad  word  to  say  of  the  Standard 
Oil  Co.  They  give  me  more  cubic  feet  of  private 
space,  bigger  cabin  space,  and  better  food  than  any 
shipowner  across  the  water.  They  give  me  any 
mortal  thing  for  my  engines  except  time  to  over- 
haul them.  The  newspapers  tell  me  they're  a  blood- 
sucking trust  battening  on  the  body-poHtic,  and 
so  on.  Personally  ..."  and  Mr.  Carville  drew 
the  stopper  from  a  square  bottle,  "personally,  I 
find  them  very  decent  people  to  work  for." 

I  sat  looking  at  him  for  some  time  as  he  busied 


ALIENS  347 

himself  with  a  drawer  which  contained,  he  assured 
me,  an  apollinaris.  It  struck  me  that  though  he 
had  gained  in  certain  external  trappings  of  the 
mind  since  entering  his  room,  he  had  ceased  to 
appear  to  me  as  a  heroic  figure.  Even  the  per- 
ception which  had  appreciated  the  grandeur  of 
New  York,  the  wit  which  had  connected  St.  George 
with  San  Giorgio  Maggiore,  seemed  to  me  incon- 
gruous with  the  present  phase  of  his  character. 
Quite  possibly  I  had  been  so  drilled  in  hatred  of 
Standard  Oil  that  I  unconsciously  revolted  from 
the  notion  that  any  good  could  come  out  of  that 
protean  enterprise!  And  yet,  when  I  reflected,  I 
could  not  but  wonder  whether,  after  all,  he,  in  his 
quiet  eflBciency,  his  sober  sense,  and  his  deliberate 
renunciation  of  the  glory  of  romance,  was  not  as 
logical  a  product  of  our  modern  age  as  the  corpora- 
tion he  served. 

"You  serve  both  God  and  Mammon,"  I  remarked 
as  the  soda-water  splashed  into  the  glass.  He 
nodded,  smiling. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "or  rather  let  us  call  it  rendering 
unto  Caesar.  After  all,  something  must  bend  if 
you  are  going  to  make  ends  meet.  Caesar,"  he 
added,  lifting  up  his  glass,  "isn't  such  a  bad  proposi- 
tion when  you  have  a  family  to  provide  for." 

I  agreed  that  this  was  so  and  scanned  the  books 
on  the  shelves.  They  at  least  were  a  noble  com- 
pany, their  gold  and  green  and  blue  broken  by  the 
plain  yellow  paper  backs  of  Italian  books.  Shake- 
speare was  there  and  St.  Francis  of  Assisi;  Fors 
Clavigera   in   a  cabinet   edition;   Symonds'   Renais- 


S48  ALIENS 

sance  and  Pater  in  wide-margined  dignity.  Tucked 
in  corners,  too,  were  books  in  that  quaint  pocket 
edition  of  the  Bihliotheque  Nationale:  Rabelais,  in 
five  volumes,  Beaumarchais'  Memoirs,  Rousseau, 
Scarron's  Travesty  of  Virgil  and  that  extraordinary 
work  of  genius,  The  Maxims  of  La  Rochefoucauld. 
As  I  tui-ned  them  over  I  saw  on  their  pages  the 
purple  rubber-stamps  of  some  bookseller  in  Tunis, 
Bizerta,  Tangier,  and  other  places  even  more  ob- 
scure. I  had  a  vision  of  the  man  making  his  way, 
in  some  perspiration,  through  the  press  of  Arabs 
and  Moors  to  the  little  shop  under  the  arches.  I 
saw  him  scanning  the  shelves,  the  Derby  hat  pushed 
back,  the  vest  open,  the  thumb  and  finger  pinching 
the  lower  lip.  .  .  .1  turned  to  him  with  a  worn 
copy  of  Heine  in  my  hand. 

"I  think,"  I  said,  "I  must  fit  out  an  expedition, 
to  go  and  dredge  the  Java  Sea  for  that  manuscript 
you  threw  overboard." 

"No,"  he  replied,  settling  in  his  chair.  "It 
wouldn't  be  worth  it." 

"We  don't  often  find  a  man  who  could  do  it,"  I 
said. 

"That's  because  they  lack  balance.  The  mistake 
artists  and  literary  people  make  is,  they  think  that 
because  a  thing  is  priceless,  we  can't  do  without 
it.  I  think  it's  a  mistake.  Someone  pays  half-a- 
million  dollars  for  a  Turner,  say.  Well,  even  if 
it  was  burnt  up,  lost  overboard,  what  of  it.'*  It 
can  be  done  again." 

"Do  you  think  so.'*"  I  asked.  I  was  glad  Mac 
did  not  hear  this. 


ALIENS  349 

"Certainly!"  replied  Mr.  Carville.  "Every- 
thing's been  done,  which  is  a  sound  argument  for 
supposing  it  can  be  done  again.  There's  plenty  of 
men  doing  much  better  than  they  did  in  olden 
times.  I  can't  see  much  sense  in  the  theory  that 
because  a  picture  is  old  it's  a  masterpiece,  and 
because  it's  new  it's  junk.  We  ought  to  take  longer 
views.  How  do  we  know  what  the  youngsters  are 
going  to  do.^  " 

"That  indeed  is  on  the  knees  of  the  gods,"  I 
said  as  I  put  the  Heine  back  on  the  shelf.  I  looked 
at  my  watch. 

"I  must  be  off  to  Pleasant  Plains,"  I  said.  "If 
you  are  not  going  out  at  once,  I  should  like  to  re- 
turn in  the  afternoon;  but  I  must  run  now." 

"I  expect  we'll  be  bunkered  and  out  by  tea- 
time,"  he  said,  rising.  "Still,  some  other  time.  .  .  . 
We're  not  away  very  long,  month  or  so   .    .    .  " 

He  followed  me  to  the  gangway  and  I  bade  him 
farewell  and  bon-voyage.  He  had  donned  a  double- 
breasted  coat  with  brass  buttons  and  a  cap  with 
a  badge  and  gold  cord  on  it.  The  effect  on  my 
mind  was  somewhat  disquieting.  He  seemed  to 
have  vanished  behind  an  official  mask,  a  mask 
whose  sympathy  with  and  knowledge  of  me  was 
inexpressibly  remote.  I  looked  back  as  I  crossed 
over  towards  the  ferry,  and  saw  him  in  deep  con- 
versation with  the  Chief  Officer. 

It  was  between  four  and  five  when  I  boarded 
the  Staten  Island  ferry  once  more.  The  wind 
had  gone  down  with  the  sun,  whose  red  globe 
flung   long   bars   of   ruddy   gold    athwart   the   still 


350  ALIENS 

water.  I  took  my  stand  on  the  upper  deck.  Once 
again  I  looked  across  the  bay  and  beheld  that 
wonderful  vision  of  New  York  floating  above  a 
blue  haze,  a  mass  of  glittering  pinnacles  and  rose- 
pink  walls  flaunting  snowy  pennants  of  white 
vapour,  and  looped  to  the  sombre  vagueness  of 
Brooklyn  by  the  long  catenary  curves  of  the  sus- 
pension bridges.  As  the  steamer  started  I  walked 
aft,  that  I  might  not  see  the  dissolution  of  the 
phantasy.  It  may  be  a  weakness;  but  there  is  to 
me,  mingled  with  all  perception  of  beauty,  a  feeling 
akin  to  pain.  Often  I  have  envied  those  more 
robust  souls  who  can  gaze  with  unfaltering  eyes 
at  the  beauty  of  this  world,  and  feel  no  pang.  I 
am  not  so.  I  was  absorbed  in  this  thought  when 
I  saw  a  steamer  with  two  red  funnels  coming  round 
from  the  Kills.  At  the  masthead  blew  a  flag  with 
a  blue  eagle.  As  she  came  across  our  track  I  saw 
that  she  was  the  Raritan,  On  the  poop-deck  was  a 
familiar  figure,  short,  rotund  and  blue.  I  stepped 
to  the  end  of  the  deck  and  waved  my  hand.  Mr, 
Carville  was  walking  back  and  forth,  hands  in 
pockets,  his  corn-cob  pipe  in  his  mouth.  He  paused 
and  caught  my  signal,  answering  heartily.  As  the 
distance  between  us  increased  he  resumed  his 
promenade,  and  the  Raritan,  threading  the  Narrows, 
dwindled  to  a  dark  blot  surmounted  by  a  patch 
of  vivid  red.  Once  again  I  turned  northwards,  and 
the  swift  dusk  of  evening  was  falling.  The  sun  had 
dropped  behind  the  Jersey  hills,  and  uprising  be- 
hind Manhattan  was  a  grey  mist  and  a  steely  sky, 
ominous  of  snow. 


ALIENS  351 

As  I  walked  up  Pine  Street  to  Van  Diemen's 
Avenue  the  air  was  opaque  and  silent,  while  the 
thick,  soft  flakes  that  touched  my  face  like  chill 
fingers  clung  to  my  coat  and  balled  under  my  feet. 
Winter,  as  we  know  it  not  in  England,  was  come 
at  last. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Miscellany 

IT  has  struck  me  often  enough  of  late  that,  for 
an  artistic  and  literary  colony,  ours  is  not  very 
acute.  For  it  is  a  sad  and  undeniable  fact  that, 
now  the  Carvilles  are  gone  away  to  live  on 
Staten  Island,  they  seem  to  have  ceased  to  exist  as 
far  as  Netley  is  concerned.  We  alone  seem  to  have 
attained  to  some  small  knowledge  of  Mr.  Carville's 
peculiar  record  and  essentially  individual  philos- 
ophy. We  alone  know  the  relationship  with  the 
celebrated  and  unfortunate  Icarus  who  achieved  in- 
ternational fame  by  crossing  the  Atlantic,  only  to 
crash  to  earth,  as  so  often  happens,  in  a  compara- 
tively trivial  enterprise.  Mr.  Carville  and  his  family 
never  became  the  talk  of  the  country  club.  They 
roused  no  interest  at  the  soda-counter  of  Paken- 
ham's  drug-store  or  in  the  room  behind  the  bar  of 
Slovitzky's  Hotel  on  Chestnut  Street.  Our  literary 
club  makes  no  mention  in  its  List  of  Authors  who 
have  lived  in  Netley,  of  Mr.  Carville  and  his  Cameos 
of  the  Sea.  Happy  the  nations  who  have  no  history, 
they  say,  and  no  doubt  the  aphorism  may  be  ap- 
plied to  families  as  well.  Certainly,  if  Mr.  Carville 
proposed,  as  no  doubt  he  did,  that  his  family  should 
attain  to  felicity  by  a  profound  obscurity,  he  has 
attained  his  desire.  It  is  left  for  Time  to  show 
whether  Benvenuto  Cellini  and  Giuseppe  Mazzini, 
when  they  grow  up,  will  emerge  from  that  obscurity 

352 


ALIENS  353 

and  astonish  the  world  with  some  novel  manifesta- 
tions of  the  family  genius. 

But  this  is  to  anticipate.  The  immediate  point  is 
that  none  of  our  neighbours — not  even  our  own 
friends,  like  Williams  nor  Eckhardt,  nor  Wederslen 
nor  Confield,  which  last  has  a  sort  of  vested  interest 
in  Europe  which  is  attested  by  his  much-travelled 
bag — had  any  inkling  of  the  story  to  which  they  saw 
us  listening  as  they  passed  our  porch  on  certain 
afternoons  that  fall.  How  little  does  Mrs.  Wed- 
erslen think,  for  example,  that  her  surmise  about 
the  burnt  aeroplane  was  grotesquely  wrong!  How 
little  does  Williams,  when  he  brings  us  his  water- 
colours,  done  in  that  fall-vacation  at  Bar  Harbor, 
appreciate  at  its  real  value  our  etching  of  an  aero- 
plane lying  across  an  English  hedgerow!  Even  Miss 
Fraenkel,  I  think,  has  no  clear  knowledge  of  Mrs. 
Carville's  part  in  the  tragedy  of  that  New  Year's 
Night.  I  remarked  early  in  this  narrative  that  IVIiss 
Fraenkel's  importance  in  it  was  of  the  slightest. 
Her  charming  enthusiasm  was  ever  an  ignis  fatuus 
leading  her  into  unprofitable  bye- ways  of  conjec- 
ture. We  have,  therefore,  the  superior  position  as 
regards  the  vanished  family  who  lived  next  door. 
We  know,  as  I  have  said,  where  they  are  gone;  but 
we  do  not  tell.  It  gives  us  a  certain  rare  aesthetic 
pleasure  to  keep  our  own  counsel. 

And  I  think  I  may  say  we  are  qualified,  after 
New  Year's  Day,  to  keep  any  secret,  for  we  kept  it 
from  the  Metropolitan  Press  when  they  invaded  us, 
a  dozen  strong,  to  "take  our  statements."  We 
laugh  over  it  now,  that  sudden  descent  of  New 


354  ALIENS 

York  "leg-men,"  breezy,  businesslike,  well-dressed 
young  gentlemen  of  the  "clean-cut"  type;  but  we 
were  glad  enough  when  they  were  through  asking 
for  facts  and  photographs  and  impressions,  and  had 
gone,  leaving  the  porch  rather  mussed-up  and  the 
snow  in  front  as  though  a  herd  of  buffaloes  had 
trampled  it.    But  even  this  is  to  anticipate  a  little. 

I  have  mentioned,  somewhere,  that  our  devotion 
to  the  purer  and  less  remunerative  branches  of  our 
respective  arts  led  us  occasionally  to  take  a  holiday. 
With  a  subconscious  deference  to  the  advice  of  our 
local  doctor,  that  "sedentary  folks  should  sell  their 
automobiles  and  take  long  walks,"  our  day's  vaca- 
tion sometimes  took  us  into  the  country.  We  had 
no  automobile  to  sell,  unfortunately;  but  otherwise 
we  carried  out  the  venerable  gentleman's  instruc- 
tions by  starting  early  and  returning  home  late  in  a 
condition  approaching  collapse.  We  thus  came  to 
know  certain  tracts  of  Passaic  and  Bergen  Counties 
in  a  manner  quite  impossible  to  the  motorist.  We 
struck  off  roads  and  took  to  the  wooded  hills  of  the 
Deer  Foot  Range.  We  spent  forenoons  losing  our- 
selves and  then,  having  eaten  our  sandwiches  and 
drained  our  flasks,  would  pass  the  rest  of  the  day 
trying  for  a  predetermined  point,  but  generally 
emerging  into  some  unknown  and  delightfully  un- 
suspected valleys  of  quietness;  Sleepy  Hollows  down 
which  no  headless  horsemen  had  ever  thundered  to 
startle  the  wild-fowl  sailing  low  in  the  evening  twi- 
light, and  over  which  the  moon  would  later  pour 
her  serene,  unearthly  radiance;  while  we,  footsore, 
hungry,  thirsty,  and  quite  absurdly  elated  at  our 


ALIENS  355 

success,  would  press  on  towards  some  twinkle  of 
light  in  the  distance,  which  told  us  of  refreshment, 
and  possibly  a  welcome  railroad  journey  home. 

It  was  only  natural  that,  on  those  rambles  which 
we  took  after  Mr.  Carville  had  begun  his  story  and 
while  he  himself  was  rambling  more  extensively 
about  the  Western  Ocean,  my  friend  and  I  would 
discuss  him  and  the  highly  stimulating  outlook  upon 
life  which  his  original  mind  working  in  a  novel 
medium  had  engendered.  Indeed,  it  would  not  be 
too  much  to  say  that  he  monopolized  our  interest 
to  the  exclusion  of  Art.  Or  rather  he,  as  a  Hv- 
ing  and  concrete  example,  became  a  kind  of  test,  to 
which  we  brought  a  great  deal  we  had  thought  and 
seen  and  read.  To  me  he  became  significant  of  even 
more,  for  he  contravened,  in  his  own  life  and  phil- 
osophy, so  much  that  is  generally  taken  for  granted 
in  fiction,  that  I  grew  doubtful  both  of  him  and  the 
conventions  he  flouted.  It  had  been  obvious  to 
me  for  some  years  that  any  advance  in  imaginative 
work  seemed  impossible  inasmuch  as  the  most  ad- 
vanced men  had  found  nothing  ahead  but  a  stone 
wall,  against  which  they  advanced  in  vain.  The 
theory  that  there  was  a  hole  in  this  wall  somewhere, 
through  which  we  could  get  into  a  freer  air  and  less 
trammelled  conditions,  was  attractive  enough.  We 
were  all  looking  for  this  hole,  but  somehow  it  had 
eluded  us.  I,  in  my  humble  way,  had  groped  and 
analyzed  and  plotted  to  find  it,  but  without  suc- 
cess, when  suddenly  it  seemed  to  me  I  heard  a  voice 
from  the  other  side,  Mr.  Carville's  voice,  telling  us 
not  only  what  the  world  looked  like  out  there,  but 


356  ALIENS 

also  how  he  got  there.  This  is  no  doubt  a  fanciful 
picture;  but  one  of  Mr.  Carville's  salient  points  was 
the  way  he,  the  least  fanciful  of  men,  appealed  to 
the  fancy  of  others  and  painted  pictures  without 
the  use  of  violent  colours  and  futile  superlatives. 
And  the  impersonal  note  which  he  maintained  did 
really  give  to  his  story  the  effect  of  a  voice  coming 
over  a  wall. 

So  I  looked  at  the  matter,  and  so  I  explained  it 
on  our  long  walks  through  Pompton  and  on  to 
Greenwood  Lake.  But  my  friend,  though  he  ac- 
cepted much  of  my  theorizing  as  interesting,  was 
struck  most  powerfully  by  Mr.  Carville's  strange 
attitude  towards  his  native  land.  It  was  all  very 
well,  Mac  urged,  to  get  through  a  hole  in  the  wall 
and  show  the  way  to  freedom  from  conventions  in 
art,  though  (to  his  mind)  conventions  were  all  right 
if  you  found  the  market — but  to  say  that  England 
was  "on  the  crumble"  was  silly.  And  to  harp  on 
gentiUty   .    .    .   Mac  shook  his  head. 

"But  that  is  one  of  the  stones  he  had  to  remove 
to  make  his  hole  in  the  wall,"  I  argued. 

"Then  your  wonderful  hole  in  the  wall  is  only  our 
old  friend  the  Door  of  Unconventionality,"  he  re- 
torted. 

"By  no  means.  He's  the  most  conventional  chap 
we  have  met  since  we  left  the  Chelsea  Arts  Club. 
What  singles  him  out  from  so  many  others  is  that 
he  saw  where  he  fitted.  And  it  so  happened  that 
he  fitted "  somewhere  below  that  to  which  he  would 
supposedly  climb.  Consider!  Most  of  us  never 
attain  to  the  position  to  which  we  imagine  it  has 


ALIENS  357 

pleased  God  to  call  us.  We  are  perpetually  strug- 
gling to  succeed.  We  *get  on  in  the  world,'  it  is 
true,  but  only  comparatively.  To  hear  some  of  us 
talk,  you'd  think  the  world  itself  wasn't  made 
sufficiently  large  and  well-furnished  to  supply  us 
with  the  position  we  are  designed  to  fill.  But  Mr. 
Carville  looks,  not  higher,  but  lower.  He  espies 
the  particular  niche  which  suits  him  perfectly,  and 
he  calmly  descends  a  few  rungs  of  the  ladder  and 
steps  off  into  oblivion.  Not  the  niche,  mind  you, 
that  the  world  might  estimate  as  his,  and  which 
would  procure  for  him  the  guerdon  of  wealth  and 
fame  and  posthumous  biographies;  but  the  niche 
which  he  conceives  to  contain  for  him  all  that  he, 
according  to  some  highly  original  conception  of 
ultimate  justice,  deserves.  As  for  England  being 
*on  the  crumble,'  I  consider  it  a  conservative 
description  of  what  has  been  going  on  in  that  coun- 
try for  years.  In  most  departments  of  life  England 
has  crumbled,  literally  crumbled  away.  What  Mr. 
Carville  omits  is  the  emergence  of  the  new  England, 
an  England  he  doesn't  like,  an  England  we  shall 
probably  find  hard  to  assimilate  and  which  may 
quite  conceivably  drive  us  to  do  what  Mr.  Carville 
has  sagely  done  already — come  back  here  and  stop 
for  good!" 

So  we  talked!  At  least,  I  talked  and  my  friend 
concurred,  or  demurred,  or  very  often  digested  my 
wisdom  in  silence — ^the  silence  that,  betwixt  friends, 
means  as  much  or  even  more  than  speech.  And  I 
remember,  one  still  evening,  the  patches  of  dry 
snow  lying  on  the  grass  of    the  side-walk  and  the 


358  ALIENS 

lawns,  as  we  came  wearily  up  Van  Diemen's  Avenue 
after  a  tramp  to  Echo  Lake,  there  had  been  a  long 
silence  after  I  had  been  theorizing  on  the  subject  of 
Mrs.  Carville.  I  am  always  listened  to  indulgently 
on  the  subject  of  women!  It  is  tacitly  taken  for 
granted  that  my  knowledge  of  the  subject  is  ex- 
clusively theoretical.  I  do  not  contest  this,  be- 
cause the  converse  of  the  proposition,  that  all  mar- 
ried men  are  practical  experts,  is  so  absurd  that 
nobody  ventures  to  state  it.  I  had  been  discussing 
Mrs.  Carville  and  the  probable  effect  of  American 
life  upon  her  when  she  should  have  more  leisure  to 
cultivate  herself.  My  point  was  that  she  might 
possibly  have  some  influence  upon  her  husband. 
And  this  was  followed,  as  I  have  said,  by  a  long 
silence. 

"No,"  said  Mac,  at  length,  "I  don't  think  so." 
I  had  almost  forgotten  what  we  were  talking  about, 
for  I  could  already  see  that  the  lamps  in  the  dining- 
room  were  lighted  and  shadows  moving  on  the 
blind. 

"Oh!"  I  said.    "Why  not.?" 

"Well,"  he  answered.  "Of  course,  we  don't  know 
her  very  well,  but  we  do  know  him.  And  I  should 
say  that  the  woman  doesn't  live  who  could  shift 
him  from  what  he  proposed  to  do.  You  may  not 
see  it  in  the  same  way,  but  it  is  plain  enough.  His 
brother,"  went  on  my  friend  with  a  laugh,  "hasn't 
all  the  devil  in  the  family,  and  don't  you  think  it." 

And  we  came  up  to  the  door  and  sat  down  in  the 
porch  to  take  off  our  boots.  I  confess  this  view  was 
to  me  entirely  novel.     I  felt  chagrined  that  I  had 


ALIENS  359 

been  so  lacking  in  intelligence  as  to  miss  so  obvious 
a  possibility.  I  had  a  faint,  uneasy  suspicion  that 
my  friend  was  laughing  at  me.  But  the  idea  was 
so  pregnant  with  interest  that  I  soon  forgot  my 
mortification.  Before  I  had  got  my  boots  com- 
pletely off  I  was  away  on  a  tour  of  this  new  and 
fascinating  region.  I  leaned  back  in  my  chair  and 
gazed  pensively  towards  the  faint  glare  of  New 
York  City.  It  was  true,  I  reflected,  that  we  had  at 
the  very  first  postulated  a  certain  friction  between 
our  neighbour  and  his  wife.  But  then  we  had  not 
listened  to  the  love  story  of  our  neighbour  and  his 
wife.  I  thought,  as  I  sat  there,  that  I  saw  the 
point  I  had  missed.  Mr.  Carville,  supposing  he 
had  what  my  friend  called  the  devil  in  the  family, 
would  not  exploit  it  while  telling  us  the  story  of 
his  life.  And  so  I,  who  had  abandoned  myseK  to 
the  enjoyment  of  his  peculiar  mentality,  had  for- 
gotten that  he  might  have,  all  the  time,  some  of 
the  "devil"  after  all,  that  he  might,  in  short,  be 
difficult  to  live  with.  I  hesitated  to  use  the  word 
"faults."  Mr.  Carville  himself  had  seemed  to 
imply  that  the  ordinary  matrimonial  disagreements 
were  as  inevitable  and  as  fundamental  as  cosmic 
disturbances.  Perhaps  they  were.  "Devil,"  how- 
ever, was  another  matter. 

"I  wonder  who's  indoors,"  said  Mac,  getting  up. 
Thus  roused,  I  heard  voices  inside,  with  laughter 
from  Bill.  The  next  moment  the  door  opened  and 
Benvenuto  Cellini  and  Giuseppe  Mazzini  were  dis- 
covered behind  it. 

"What,  visitors.?"  said  Mac,  touching  the  dim- 


360  ALIENS 

pies  in  tlieir  cheeks;  and  they  nodded  and  looked 
at  each  other  in  a  very  taking  way  they  had.  Bill 
came  in  hastily.  "They  came  in  this  afternoon," 
she  explained,  "and  asked  most  solemnly  if  they 
might  have  some  tea.  Ma  was  gone  to  New  York, 
they  said,  and  she  might  be  late." 

"'That  so.?"  said  Mac.  "Well,  we'll  have  'em 
to  dinner  as  well.  What  'say,  you  chaps .f*  Will  you 
have  dinner  with  us?" 

Again  they  nodded  and  looked  at  each  other,  and 
Ben  remarked  gravely  that  they  were  hungry. 

We  went  off  to  have  a  wash  and  a  change. 

They  certainly  were  two  pretty  httle  men  as  they 
stood  there  in  red  jerseys  and  blue  corduroy  knick- 
ers. My  friend's  custom  of  snatching  open  the 
piano  and  heralding  dinner  with  a  furious  tornado 
of  chords  pleased  them  vastly. 

"Wliat's  that  for?"  Beppo  inquired  expectantly. 

"Chop,"  said  Mac,  rumpling  their  hair.  "Pipe 
all  hands  to  the  galley.  Here  comes  the  salt  horse 
and  the  hard  tack." 

"Their  father  isn't  a  deck-swab,"  I  remarked 
mildly. 

"Perhaps  not,"  he  retorted,  "but  pipe  all  hands 
etcetera  is  in  that  comic  opera  I'm  illustrating  and 
doing  the  costumes  for,  and  I've  got  it  on  the  brain. 
Have  you  noticed,"  he  went  on,  "that  Carville 
seems  to  have  no  professional  slang?" 

"He's  not  typical  of  his  class,"  I  admitted.  "Any 
more  than  his  wife  is  of  her's,  I  suppose.  Moreover, 
he  knows  we  know  nothing  of  his  work  and  explains 
it  in  simple  language.     Does  it  not  occur  to  you,'* 


ALIENS'  361 

I  inquired,  "that  his  avoidance  of  slang  and  dialect 
and  foreign  words  and  profanity  is  part  of  the  free- 
dom of  the  other  side  of  the  wall?  Think  of  what  we 
have  lived  through  in  the  last  twenty  years !  But  now 
we  have  listened  to  a  tale  of  the  ends  of  the  earth 
and  the  teller  of  it  neither  foams  at  the  mouth  nor 
talks  in  a  strange  technical  jargon  nobody  ever 
spoke  and  nobody  can  understand.  Without  nam- 
ing any  names,  isn't  it  a  relief?  Isn't  it  refreshing? 
After  the  terrible  experiences  we  have  had  in  the 
past!" 

"Did  mother  tell  you  to  come  in?"  he  asked  the 
children  after  nodding  to  me. 

"Yes,"  said  Beppo,  thrusting  out  his  chin  and 
working  his  neck  slowly  as  Bill  tied  a  napkin  round 
it.  And  he  went  on  in  a  thin,  clear,  little  voice: 
"We  ha'nt  any  help  in  our  house,  an'  Ma  she  had 
to  go  to  the  stores,  so  we  said  we'd  like  comin'  in 
here  to  see  you  till  she  comes  back." 

"Well,  that's  awfully  nice  of  you,  old  chap. 
Next  time  you'll  bring  mother  too,  eh?" 

They  looked  at  each  other  at  this,  and  then  at 
their  spoons  as  they  leaned  over  the  soup. 

"Anyhow,  you'll  ask  her,  won't  you?"  coaxed 
Bill.  "Say,  how  pleased  we  shall  be  if  she  comes  in 
some  evening." 

They  smiled,  and  Beppo  said,  "Sure,  we'll  ask 
her,"  and  then  we  all  laughed.  I  suppose  we  were 
a  trifle  fatuous  about  them  and  treated  them  more 
as  delicious  playthings  than  as  human  beings.  They 
bore  it  very  well,  however,  and  after  dinner,  when 
my  friend,  in  spite  of  his  long  tramp  and  a  "job" 


362  ALIENS 

half  done  upstairs  in  the  studio,  played  the  piano, 
and  did  conjuring  tricks  with  a  handkerchief  and  a 
glass  of  water,  and  then  got  out  a  concertina  which 
had  often  wakened  the  echoes  of  Bang's  Road,  Chel- 
sea, in  the  small  hours,  they  were  in  raptures.  The 
concertina  certainly  impressed  them  as  "a  divine 
box  of  sounds."  After  "Church  Bells  in  the  Dis- 
tance" they  jumped  and  clapped  their  hands  and 
said  "Bully!"  A  new  and  appreciative  audience 
is  always  stimulating  to  an  artist.  My  friend  sur- 
passed himself.  He  told  them  about  the  London 
costers,  how  they  had  hundreds  of  pearl  buttons 
and  velvet  collared  coats  and  wide  bell-mouthed 
trousers,  how  they  played  the  concertina  so  beau- 
tifully that  the  policemen  in  the  streets  wept  into 
their  helmets  and  the  King  came  out  of  his  palace 
and  danced  a  jig  with  the  Lord  Mayor  outside  the 
Mansion  House.  And  he  told  them  how  it  some- 
times chanced  the  coster  got  drunk  on  his  way 
home,  and  this  made  him  play  very  pathetically 
indeed  like  this  .  .  .  and  then  the  broken  strains 
of  "Two  Lovely  Black  Eyes"  came  forth,  but  ended 
abruptly  in  a  squeak.  That,  they  w^ere  told,  was 
his  wife,  Eliza,  who  had  come  out  and  slapped  him. 
Eliza  had  joined  the  Salvation  Army  and  sang  only 
hymns.  This  was  the  prelude  to  "Where  is  My 
Wandering  Boy  To-night.'^"  rendered  in  a  way.  Bill 
remarked  sotto  voce,  calculated  to  keep  him  wander- 
ing. But  Beppo  and  Ben  sat  on  the  edge  of  their 
chairs,  entranced.  It  was  evidently  a  novel  even- 
ing for  them.  We  put  the  concertina  away  and  got 
a  drawing-board  with  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a  stick 


ALIENS  363 

of  charcoal,  and  everybody  had  to  draw  a  pig 
blindfold.  The  usual  fragmentary  animals  ap- 
peared, some  so  embryonic  as  to  be  unrecognizable 
by  their  designers,  some  with  tails  in  their  ears, 
others  with  too  many  legs.  My  own  efforts  were 
adjudged  the  best,  which  led  Bill  to  express  surprise 
that  a  man  who  couldn't  draw  anything  at  all  with 
his  eyes  open  should  be  able  to  draw  a  pig  blind- 
fold. Tired  of  this,  Mac  put  on  a  pair  of  castanets 
and  danced  a  Spanish  fandango.  He  hung  up  a 
sheet  in  front  of  his  studio  lamp  and  performed  an 
amazing  series  of  shadow-pictures  representing  the 
"Hunting  of  the  Snark."  When  our  small  visitors 
saw  the  Jub-jub,  "that  terrible  bird,"  flapping 
horribly  about  with  his  three-cornered  eyes  glaring 
at  them,  they  grasped  our  hands  and  shouted  with 
the  most  exquisite  mingling  of  horror  and  delight. 
They  were  consoled  with  a  WTCstling  match  to  which 
my  versatile  friend  challenged  himself.  Having 
shaken  hands  with  himself,  he  then  grasped  himself 
in  the  most  approved  catch-as-catch-can  manner, 
struggled  desperately  to  throw  himself  and  finally 
triumphed  by  flinging  himself  in  the  air,  turning  a 
somersault  and  coming  down  on  the  carpet  with  a 
bump.  Getting  up  and  falling  exhausted  into  a 
chair,  he  was  greeted  with  loud  cries  to  "do  it 
again." 

"No,  indeed,  you  won't,"  said  Bill  emphatically. 
"You  must  be  crazy  to  do  it  at  all  after  walking  I 
don't  know  how  many  miles.  Children,  do  you 
want  to  kill  my  husband?" 

They  shook  their  heads  solemnly.     At  that  mo- 


364  ALIENS 

ment  they  evidently  thought  him  quite  the  most 
wonderful  person  in  the  world.  I  often  think  so 
myself  and  I  know  his  wife  holds  that  view  always. 
So  I  at  once  inaugurated  a  story-telling  competition. 
I  told  them  of  an  extraordinary  ajffair  that  had  once 
happened  in  England,  where  I  was  eking  out  a 
wretched  existence  as  a  hunter  of  buried  treasure. 
I  had  received  information  about  a  tomato-can  full 
of  diamonds  hidden  in  a  beef -steak  pie  which  would 
be  served  at  a  certain  old  inn  on  the  shores  of  a  lake 
far  away  towards  the  North  Sea,  and  I  was  just 
packing  up  my  patent  can-opener,  a  box  of  candy 
and  a  packet  of  gum  for  refreshment  on  the  way, 
and  a  pair  of  silver-mounted  pistols  like  those  in 
the  studio  upstairs,  when  an  old  woman  with  bright 
red  hair  tapped  at  the  door  .  .  .  tap-tap!  Ben 
and  Beppo  both  looked  at  the  door,  and  Bill  said 
in  a  low  voice,  "Don't  frighten  them;  you'll  make 
them  dream."  But  they  were  watching  me  once 
more  with  their  round,  expectant  eyes,  and  I  was 
racking  my  brains  to  discover  the  purport  of  the 
old  woman  with  the  bright  red  hair — for  I  am  al- 
ways inventing  fascinating  characters  about  which  I 
know  nothing! — when  the  brass  Canterbury  Pil- 
grim was  lifted  twice  and  we  heard  a  real  knock  on 
a  real  door   .    .    .   tap-tap! 

It  was  Mrs.  Carville.  She  stepped  quickly  into 
the  room  so  that  the  door  might  be  closed  on  the 
cold  night  air,  and  looked  round  with  an  unwonted 
gaiety  in  her  mien.  As  her  gaze  fell  upon  the  two 
httle  boys,  who  stood  close  to  my  knee  and  ham- 
pered  rav  rising,   I  fancied   the  ^Dression   of  her 


ALIENS  S65 

fine  dark  eyes  hardened  a  little.  It  may  have  been 
only  fancy,  but  it  made  me  wonder  if  the  cause  of 
her  elation  lay  beyond  the  family  circle.  At  first 
I  had  a  twinge,  for  when  a  woman,  whose  husband 
is  in  some  Mediterranean  port,  is  elated  by  some- 
thing beyond  her  front  door,  the  world  (and  I 
belonged  to  the  world,  after  all)  looks  grave.  I 
suppose  I  myself  looked  grave  as  I  bowed,  for  she 
regarded  me — her  eyes  coming  back  to  my  face  for 
a  moment — with  a  certain  gallant  challenge,  as 
though  she  read  my  shadowy  thought  and  defied 
it.  And  then,  sitting  back  in  my  chair  again  and 
watching  her  respond  to  the  charm  of  my  friend's 
manner,  I  could  not  help  wishing  that  Mr.  Car- 
ville  had  seen  fit  to  give  us  a  little  more  of  his  wife's 
character  in  his  narrative.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
the  dry,  clear  light  of  his  recondite  mind  would 
have  thrown  into  admirable  gleams  and  shadows, 
gleams  of  humour  and  shadows  of  blind  fate,  the 
brilliant  creature  who  sat  before  us.  There  was 
nothing  material  in  her  manner  as  she  let  her  glance 
fall  again  upon  the  children.  The  gaiety  super- 
imposed upon  her  customary  staid  gravity  seemed 
to  have  made  her,  not  younger  or  less  mature,  but 
less  domestic,  more  complex  and  mystifying.  And 
I  found  myself  recalling  Mr.  Carville's  contemp- 
tuous moralizings  upon  the  illusory  nature  of  love. 
I  tried,  foolish  as  it  may  seem,  to  place  myself  in- 
tellectually in  the  place  of  a  woman  like  Mrs. 
Carville,  to  conceive  her  probable  fundamental  at- 
titude towards  her  offspring,  trodden  smooth  and 
firm  by  the  daily  round  of  chores,  an  active,  vigorous 


366  ALIENS 

mind  in  an  active,  vigorous  body.  .  .  .  Well,  this 
was  journeyman's  work,  I  suppose,  for  a  novelist; 
yet  for  me  it  had  a  freshness  and  spice  that  led  me 
on  until  I  pulled  up  sharply  and  felt  the  pang  of 
shame.  I  am  continually  torn  in  the  conflict  be- 
tween realism  and  what  are  called  "unworthy 
thoughts."  If  it  were  not  for  a  fear  of  traducing 
my  own  character  by  an  ambiguous  phrase,  I  would 
confess  to  many  "unworthy  thoughts"  of  many 
worthy  people.  I  suppress  them,  of  course,  as  I 
suppressed  these  concerning  jMrs.  Carville's  trip  to 
New  York  and  the  secular  gaiety  that  now  sat  like 
a  diadem  on  IMrs.  Carville's  forehead;  but  I  have 
them  all  the  same. 

I  was  roused  by  Mrs.  Carville's  rising  and  saying 
that  the  children  must  go  to  bed. 

"Let  them  come  in  again  soon,"  said  Mac.  "We 
would  like  to  say  'any  time,'  you  know,  but  we're 
like  parsons  and  doctors,  we  work  at  home  and  we 
can't  have  holidays  every  day." 

"I  am  glad  they  have  been  no  trouble,"  she  re- 
plied, regarding  them  with  a  preoccupied  approval. 

"Trouble!"  My  friend  was  indignant.  "We 
haven't  enjoyed  ourselves  so  much  in  years,  I 
assure  you,  Mrs.  Carville.  You've  had  a  good 
time,  you  chaps,  eh?"  he  asked  them  and  they 
nodded  with  reminiscent  dehght  shining  in  their 
eyes.  "Bully!"  said  Beppo,  and  Ben,  more  taci- 
turn, added  an  expressive  glance  at  his  brother  that 
signified  profound  assent.  I  found  their  scarlet 
woolen  caps  while  my  friend  expatiated  upon  the 
delightful  privilege  of  having  two  such  fine  little 


ALIENS  367 

chaps.  Mrs.  Carville  at  first  sought,  by  a  quick 
glance  at  her  hostess,  some  sympathy  for  her  own 
soberer  feelmgs  in  the  matter.  But  Bill,  though 
not  caring  for  children  to  madness,  had  fallen  in 
love  with  these  two,  and  gave  to  them  much  of  the 
credit  for  their  pretty  ways  and  well-bred  habits 
that  by  right  belonged  to  their  mother.  And  so 
Mrs.  Carville,  seeing  only  corroborative  enthusiasm 
in  Bill's  expression,  turned  to  me. 

"To  us  they  are  angels,"  I  explained,  laughing, 
"and  you  must  permit  us  to  love  them  in  our  own 
way.  It  is  so  easy  to  love  without  responsibility, 
you  know." 

She  pondered  this  an  instant,  looking  at  me 
sombrely  the  while  and  then  illumination  came, 
and  she  flashed  a  glance  of  vivid  answering  intelli- 
gence and  nodded. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  turning  to  the  door,  and  lifting 
the  latch.  "Yes,"  she  repeated,  opening  the  door 
and  looking  out  into  the  night.    "It  is  very  easy." 

And  the  next  moment  they  were  gone  and  we 
were  alone  once  more. 

"Gee!"  said  my  friend,  yawning.  "If  I'm  not 
all  in!" 

"You've  both  got  to  go  straight  to  bed,"  said  his 
wife  briskly.  "You  won't  be  worthy  thirty  cents 
in  the  morning,  and  you'll  just  loaf  round  and  ..." 

The  telephone  bell  whirred  and  Mac  closed  his 
mouth  abruptly  on  his  third  consecutive  yawn  and 
sprang  to  the  instrument.  We  sat  and  watched. 
There  was  some  little  trouble  on  the  line  at  first, 
common  in  party  lines  where  outside  bells  some- 


S68  ALIENS 

times   ring   and   the   owners   have   to   be  pacified. 

Then  "Oh  yes" "Yes,  I  hear  you Yes"  and 

a  long  uninteUigible  series  of  affirmatives  in  different 
keys.  My  friend's  face  and  figure  gradually  lost  all 
appearance  of  fatigue.  His  eyes  sharpened  and 
glared  at  us  over  the  receiver  as  he  listened  and  said 
"yes"  with  exasperating  reiteration.  His  wife  sig- 
nalled dolefully  to  me  that  it  was  probably  a  bird's- 
eye  view,  and  she'd  never  get  him  up  in  the  morning 
to  catch  the  seven  o'clock.  It  occurred  to  me  at 
the  time  that  bird's-eye  views  are  not  usually  or- 
dered at  ten  o'clock  at  night;  but  I  was  too  ab- 
sorbed in  watching  my  friend's  expression  of 
bewilderment,  doubt,  delight  and  anticipation  in 
rapid  succession,  and  I  did  no  more  than  shrug. 
At  length  he  smiled  broadly,  remarked,  "Right. 
I'll  get  busy.  See  you  later,  Jimmy.  G'bye,"  and 
rang  off.  And  then,  to  my  amazement  and  his 
wife's  indignation,  he  threw  his  heels  in  the  air  and 
walked  across  the  room  on  his  hands! 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  she  asked  se- 
verely. Assuming  a  conventional  position  again, 
and  walking  up  and  down  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  he  told  us  the  cause  of  his  excitement. 

"It's  Jimmy  Larkin  in  the  News  Building.  He's 
got  a  big  job  on.  Got  to  go  south  and  wait  for 
orders.  He's  got  a  pal  in  the  Navy  at  Norfolk,  and 
he's  phoned  that  they'd  just  received  a  wireless 
from  a  cruiser  in  the  West  Indies  somewhere  to  say 
she's  spoken  an  aeroplane  going  north-west.  They 
think  it's  that  chap — you  know? — and  Lord  Cholme 
of  the  Morning^s  springing  something  on  us.    Any- 


ALIENS  369 

how,  Jimmy's  got  the  assignment  and  he's  put  me 
in  too,  to  do  some  hurry-up  sketches  on  the  spot  if 
we're  lucky." 

"Not  to-night!"  said  Bill,  aghast. 

*'Sure,  to-night.  I'll  have  to  take  the  trolley  into 
Newark  and  join  Jimmy  on  the  New  Orleans  Lim- 
ited there." 

"Then,"  I  said,  "this  is  a  wild-goose  chase  after 
our  neighbour's  brother?" 

Mac  is  an  extremely  practical  man,  and  he  merely 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Maybe,  old  man.  Whether 
it's  him  or  somebody  else,  the  story  has  to  be  cov- 
ered, and  we're  away  to  cover  it.  It  might  mean  a 
staff  job  later  for  the  News,  eh?" 

"It's  quite  a  romance,"  I  remarked. 

"Romance  nothing — it's  bread  and  butter,  man! 
Where's  my  grip?  Oh  yes,  I  remember."  And  he 
pranced  away  upstairs  to  the  studio  to  pack  the 
tools  of  his  craft.  His  wife,  who  was  looking  out 
linen  and  hosiery  and  all  the  things  a  woman  firmly 
believes  a  man  can  never  remember  for  himself,  and 
without  which  he  is  a  mere  shivering  forked  radish, 
found  time  to  order  me  to  bed,  but  was  drawn  away 
immediately  into  an  argument  concerning  the  cli- 
mate in  the  south.  My  friend,  evidently  viewing 
underwear,  remarked  that  he  was  going  south,  not 
north  to  Labrador,  and  where  was  his  seersucker 
suit.  He  was  informed  that  his  seersucker  suit  had 
been  in  the  rag-basket  for  years,  and,  anyway,  her 
husband  wasn't  going  on  a  trip  without  adequate 
clothing.  I  reached  for  my  boots  and  put  them  on. 
It  seemed  to  me  it  was  my  duty  to  see  him  safely 


370  ALIENS 

into  his  berth  on  the  Limited.  After  some  ten 
minutes  of  vigorous  packing  and  debate,  they  came 
down,  and  found  me  ready. 

"You  aren't  going  too?"  cried  Bill. 

"To  the  train,"  I  said.  "He  might  fall  asleep 
on  the  road." 

If  I  had  hoped  to  get  much  more  information  out 
of  him  by  going  into  Ne\^rk,  I  was  disappointed. 
The  question  of  the  Carvilles  and  their  adventures 
had  been  wiped  clean  from  his  mind  by  the  more 
immediate  and  personal  affair  of  an  assignment.  I 
am  afraid  that  even  if  I  had  had  a  part  in  this 
amusing  attempt  to  forestall  the  other  papers  I 
would  still  have  been  more  interested  in  the  airman 
than  in  the  astonishing  enterprise  on  which  he  was 
engaged.  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  gape  at 
scientific  marvels.  As  I  have  said  before,  let  Science 
do  her  worst:  humanity  remains  the  same  fascinat- 
ing enigma. 

And  yet,  as  we  sat  in  the  empty,  rattling  car, 
our  feet  crunching  the  pea-nut  shells  and  chicle 
coverings  of  some  Passaic  joy-riders,  and  my  friend 
discussed  with  enthusiasm  the  probable  outcome  of 
the  expedition,  I  realized  that,  after  all,  I  could  not 
expect  him  to  share  my  burden.  For  good  or  ill  the 
v/riter  must  carry  with  him  for  ever  the  problem  of 
the  human  soul.  The  plastic  artist  has  his  own 
problems  of  light,  and  mass,  and  the  like.  And  from 
this  I  came  back  circuitously  to  Mr.  Carville.  I 
was  puzzled  to  find  a  name  for  the  deliberate  rejec- 
tion of  his  responsibilities  as  an  artist.  One  could 
not  call  him  a  renegade  or  a  coward,  for  he  was 


ALIENS  371 

neither.  And  yet  his  acceptance  of  an  obscure 
destiny  had  in  it  nothing  of  the  sacredness  of  re- 
nunciatit>n.  It  was  almost  as  though  he  were 
hoarding  his  soul's  wealth,  and  adroitly  avoiding 
any  of  the  pangs  and  labours  of  the  spiritual  life. 
Because  it  seemed  to  me  that,  for  a  man  of  his 
receptivity,  the  normal  bovine  existence  of  the 
humble  folk  among  whom  he  lived  was  out  of  the 
question.  He  knew  too  much,  was  too  alive  to  the 
shifting  lights  and  shadows  of  life,  to  sit,  like  grey- 
haired  Saturn,  ** quiet  as  a  stone."  Perhaps  he  had 
some  unknown  ulterior  ambition  on  which  he  was 
brooding  through  the  years.  I  had  read  of  such 
cases,  though  I  confess  I  always  suspect  the  biog- 
rapher of  a  picturesque  imagination.  He  sees  too 
clearly.  He  is  wise  after  the  event.  It  seems  that 
the  roots  of  a  man's  virtue  are  hidden,  after  all. 

We  had  not  long  to  wait  when  we  reached  the 
station.  The  long,  black,  heavy  train  rolled  in 
and  we  climbed  into  a  Pullman.  A  broad,  red  face, 
with  upstanding  Irish  hair  above  it,  was  thrust 
through  a  pair  of  lower  berth  curtains.  Mr.  Larkin 
was  known  to  me  slightly  as  a  "live- wire."  I  ex- 
plained why  I  had  come  to  the  opposite  berth  which 
was  reserved.  "WTiile  my  friend  was  settling  with 
the  conductor,  I  took  the  opportunity  to  sound 
Mr.  Larkin,  who  was  offering  me  a  cigar.  He 
nodded  vigorously. 

"Sure.  It's  that  whats-hls-name  guy — ^Frank 
Lord  he  calls  himself.  I've  been  covering  all  that 
flyin'  dope  in  England  since  'way  back,  and  I  knew 
Lord  Cholme  had  some  stunt  coming,     Ah.  that's 


372  ALIENS 

it — Carville.  Yep.  His  stage  name's  Lord.  No, 
he  can't  come  all  the  way  at  one  lap.  You  must  be 
crazy.  He'd  want  a  ship  load  of  gasoline.  We  had 
it  all  planned  years  ago.  North  or  south  he  must 
go.  Barometer's  been  steady  now  all  over  the 
Atlantic,  so  he's  gone  south — Madeira,  Azores,  Bar- 
bados and  so  on.  Hits  America  in  Florida  maybe, 
where  it's  easy  landin'  among  all  them  bayous  and 
swamps.  Oh  we'll  get  him  all  right,  don't  you 
worry." 

"And  where  do  you  stop.*^"  I  asked. 

"Rocky  Mount,  if  we  get  no  news  beforehand." 

I  got  out,  and  the  train  moved  off  on  the  ninety- 
mile  spin  to  Philadelphia.  I  wondered  if  I  had  dis- 
played a  genuine  sporting  interest.  I  was  very 
tired,  and  the  four-mile  journey  in  the  trolley-car 
was  tedious.  As  I  passed  the  dark  house  next  door, 
Mrs.  Carville's  voice  came  back  to  me  as  she  caught 
the  meaning  of  my  words  that  evening.  I  had  said 
it  was  easy  to  love  without  responsibility,  and  she 
had  answered  with  an  eagerness  of  assent  that  I 
could  not  forget.  I  had  at  times  experienced  the 
evanescent  and  perilous  temptations  of  that  love 
that  needs  no  understanding,  the  love  that  lights  no 
torch,  and  is  but  a  vagrom  fancy  crossing  the 
beaten  tracks  of  life  .  .  .  for  an  instant  I 
stood,  with  the  key  in  my  'hand,  and  pondered 
the  next  house  and  the  sombre  secret  of  which 
it  was  the  symbol.  On  the  horizon  the  great 
light  on  the  Metropolitan  Tower  flashed  the  hour 
of  midnight. 

As  I  let  myself  in,  it  occurred  to  me  that  Mr, 


ALIENS  373 

Carville  would  be  walking  to  and  fro,  smoking  a 
meditative  pipe  beneath  the  stars,  his  thoughts,  no 
doubt,  flying  westward  like  enigmatic  night-birds, 
and  hovering  above  the  home  towards  which  he 
was  speeding. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Discussion 

ONE  of  the  immemorial  customs  of  New 
York,  whenever  a  stranger  arrives  from 
across  the  sea,  should  he  by  any  chance 
have  ever  done  anything,  anywhere,  is  to 
give  him  a  show.  When  you  understand  the  root- 
principle  of  this  practice,  you  are  on  the  way  to 
understanding  New  York,  and  incidentally,  Amer- 
ica. For  in  spite  of  many  cynical  arguments  to  the 
contrary,  I  remain  satisfied  that  New  York  is,  after 
all,  part  of  the  United  States.  Just  as  Broadway 
is  a  rather  over-illuminated  Main  Street,  so  the 
metropoKtan  press  is  a  highly  concentrated  Local 
Interest.  You  arrive  on  an  ocean  liner  instead  of  on 
the  Limited,  but  the  principle  is  the  same.  You 
come  from  foreign  parts,  from  effete  Europe;  you 
are  a  distinguished  stranger,  and  everybody,  in  the 
person  of  their  press,  turns  out  to  stare  and  cheer 
and  find  out  your  opinion  of  our  glorious  country. 
It  is  true  that,  after  a  few  days  of  embarrassing 
publicity,  your  photograph  vanishes  from  the  daily 
sheets,  your  hotel  ceases  to  be  besieged  by  public 
emissaries  asking  your  opinion  of  Mr.  Roosevelt, 
Baked  Beans  or  Twilight  Sleep;  you  discover  (with 
a  pang)  that  you  are  forgotten,  and  a  French  Scien- 
tist or  an  Italian  Futurist,  or  a  Russian  Nihilist  has 
taken  your  place.  But  that,  after  all,  may  be  the 
extent  of  your  merits.     You  have  had  your  show.- 

374 


ALIENS  375 

New  York  has  given  your  hand  a  jovial,  welcome 
squeeze.  The  most  hospitable  hosts  cannot  forever 
regard  you  as  a  new  arrival.  You  pass  on,  and 
others  take  the  floor  in  the  spot-light  and  register 
surprise,  pleasure,  indignation,  criticism  or  what- 
ever their  peculiar  talent  may  dictate.  And  this 
custom  of  the  town  is  not  at  all  comparable  with 
the  reception  accorded  St.  Paul  when  he  arrived 
at  Athens  and  found  the  citizens  of  that  republic 
hankering  after  some  new  thing.  It  is  at  the  other 
end  of  the  scale  of  human  motives.  It  is  the  cu- 
riosity and  enthusiasm  of  youth  rather  than  the 
prurience  of  age.  It  is,  in  its  way,  a  test  of  char- 
acter. You  may  have  weathered  adversity  with 
credit.  New  York  will  see  how  you  behave  in 
prosperity.  I  often  suspect  the  headline  which 
says  that  So-and-So  won't  talk,  to  cover  a  good 
deal  of  moral  cowardice.  So-and-So  has  probably 
become  afraid  of  the  intoxicating  fumes  of  publicity. 
Fame,  he  discovers,  blended  with  the  unfamiliar 
high-tension  atmosphere  of  Manhattan  Island,  is 
heady  stuff.  He  finds  many  of  his  old  notions 
burst  asunder  amid  so  much  noise  and  light  and 
swift  movement.  He  will,  if  he  be  British,  feel 
constrained  to  run  down  England,  just  as  later  on, 
when  he  returns  to  London,  he  will  write  a  book 
running  down  America.  So-and-So  flies  from  temp- 
tation and  "refuses  to  talk." 

All  this  is  more  or  less  apropos  of  Mr.  Francis 
Lord's  arrival  in  New  York  after  having  crossed 
the  Atlantic  in  a  sea-plane.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
Mr.  Francis  Lord  was  making  for  Key  West,  when 


376  ALIENS 

what  is  called  engine-trouble  caused  him  to  descend 
to  the  surface  of  a  perfectly  smooth  sea.  The 
weekly  mail-boat  from  Belize  to  New  York  was 
speeding  up  the  Florida  Channel  when  the  officer 
of  the  watch  made  out  a  large  triplane  ahead  of 
him.  It  was  apparently  trying  to  rise,  but  without 
success.  The  course  of  the  steamer  was  altered  to 
bring  her  more  in  the  way  of  the  machine.  Just  as 
they  were  approaching,  the  triplane  rushed  across 
their  bows,  rose  out  of  the  water,  and  instead  of 
climbing,  slid  down  side-ways,  completely  sub- 
merging the  right-hand  planes.  The  ship  was 
stopped  and  a  boat  lowered.  According  to  the 
laconic  report  of  the  commander,  who  seemed  more 
anxious  to  claim  a  record  for  his  boat-crew  than  to 
share  the  glory  of  salving  an  eminent  airman's  life, 
they  had  the  boat  up  and  were  under  way  again 
inside  of  eighteen  minutes.  And  so  Mr.  Francis 
Lord  arrived  in  New  York  in  the  usual  prosaic  way, 
and  our  enterprising  friends,  accompanied  by  a 
score  of  other  hunters  of  "scoops,"  had  to  return 
hastily.  It  does  not  appear,  however,  that  they 
would  have  gained  anything  had  they  remained, 
because  the  astute  Lord  Cholme  had  provided  a 
press-agent.  This  gentleman,  we  heard  long  after- 
wards, was  in  Savannah  superintending  the  first 
rehearsals  of  a  gigantic  film-drama  depicting  the 
Conquest  of  the  Atlantic.  On  hearing  of  his  prin- 
cipal's arrival  on  a  steamer  he  took  the  next  train 
north,  and  from  the  moment  he  reached  Mr.  Fran- 
cis Lord's  hotel  on  Fifth  Avenue,  Mr.  Francis  Lord 
seemed  lost  to  view.     We  found  in  the  papers  no 


ALIENS  377 

interviews  with  Mr.  Lord.  He  "refused  to  talk.'* 
The  press-agent,  however,  handed  out  type-written 
statements  about  the  trip,  the  islands  where  land- 
ings were  made,  the  readings  of  the  instruments,  the 
diflSculties  which  ended  in  capsizing  the  machine  al- 
most in  sight  of  land,  the  time  taken,  the  speed  in 
miles  per  hour,  the  distance  travelled,  the  records 
made  and  broken.  He  handed  out  accounts  of  the 
lives  of  M.  D'Aubigne,  the  inventor.  Lord  Cholme, 
the  promoter,  and  Mr.  Francis  Lord,  the  airman. 
He  handed  out  photographs  of  the  three.  He 
handed  out  plans  of  the  triplane.  The  reporters 
grew  tired  of  seeing  the  press-agent,  for  he  in- 
variably handed  out  some  deadly-dull  document 
without  the  ghost  of  a  story  attaiched  to  it.  The 
kindly  human  side  of  the  great  adventure  seemed 
non-existent.  The  public  wanted  to  know  what  the 
great  man  really  looked  like,  what  he  had  for  break- 
fast, where  he  went  in  the  evening,  what  he  thought 
of  Fifth  Avenue,  of  the  Woolworth  Building,  of  our 
glorious  country.  And  it  followed  naturally  that 
since  Mr.  Francis  Lord  maintained  his  silence  and 
invisibility,  it  devolved  upon  the  Press  to  provide 
imaginative  replies  to  all  these  burning  questions. 
They  described  Mr.  Francis  Lord,  they  drew  pic- 
tures of  him  in  original  attitudes,  they  reported 
rumours  of  his  movements,  they  conjectured  and 
arranged  his  future  plans,  they  concocted  compe- 
titions between  him  and  illustrious  American  airmen, 
they  professed  to  have  heard  that  a  Swiss  was 
already  preparing  to  beat  Mr.  Francis  Lord's 
record  by  a  flight  from  Lake  Geneva  to  Lake  Erie, 


378  ALIENS 

they  used  all  their  genius  to  make  a  public  success 
of  Mr.  Francis  Lord  and  his  achievement. 

And  then  they  dropped  him. 

To  us,  reading  the  news  day  by  day  after  break- 
fast, it  was,  of  course,  inevitable.  I  think  my  friend 
felt  it  more  than  I,  for  he  has  a  profound  faith  in 
publicity.  It  is  the  secret  of  his  success  as  a  pub- 
licist, I  suppose.  His  theory  is,  that  no  matter  how 
good  your  article  may  be,  you  cannot  sell  it  unless 
you  advertise.  You  must  boom,  you  must  shout 
and  show  yourself  and  talk  to  people.  You  must 
"get  next."  He  calls  it  "making  an  appeal."  He 
thinks  Mr.  Francis  Lord  and  his  wonderful  press- 
agent  had  not  played  up  to  the  great  traditions  of 
American  newspaper  life.  He  sketched  lightly  for 
me  a  plan  which  he  and  Larkin  agreed  would  have 
"put  him  across." 

"But,"  I  argued  mildly,  "what  could  he  do?  Do 
you  propose  he  should  hire  a  theatre  and  exhibit 
himself.''    Why  should  he  want  to  be  advertised.'^" 

My  friend  made  a  movement  of  impatience. 

"You  miss  the  whole  point,"  he  retorted.  "Why 
did  Whistler  wear  that  white  lock  of  hair  of  his.'* 
Why  did  Wilde  start  that  Green  Carnation  stunt? 
*Why  did  Chamberlain  wear  a  monocle,  or  Glad- 
stone those  big  collars?" 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  I  said  feebly,  "unless 
it  was  ..." 

"It  was  simply  to  fix  their  personalities  in  the 
public  mind.  If  you've  done  a  big,  wise  thing,  the 
public  won't  take  any  notice  of  you  unless  yci  do 
some  httle,  silly  thing." 


ALIENS  379 

"I  wish  you'd  tell  the  public  this,  old  man,"  I 
said. 

"The  public  don't  give  a  darn,"  he  returned 
grimly. 

"Evidently  they  don't  in  this  case.  And  1 
don't  see  why  they  should,  if  you  ask  me.  Even 
suppose  he  had  crossed  the  Atlantic,  which  he 
hasn't,  for  he  fell  into  the  sea — even  suppose  he 
had,  what  of  it.'^  Would  his  walking  up  Fifth 
Avenue  in  pink  tights  with  an  arum  Uly  in  his  hand 

But  my  friend  was  gone  upstairs  to  his  studio 
and  my  subtle  sarcasm  was  lost.  We  look  at  this 
question  of  public  performances  from  different 
angles.  When  we  heard  of  a  neighbour's  son  earn- 
ing ten  dollars  every  Saturday  by  going  up  in  a 
balloon  and  descending  in  a  parachute  (very  often 
alighting  upon  some  embarrassingly  private  roof) 
Mac  thought  it  very  creditable  of  him  and  mighty 
poor  pay.  I  contended  that  it  was  a  good  deal 
more  than  the  job  was  worth,  because  it  was  worth 
exactly  nothing.  It  was  not  wt)rth  doing.  This, 
of  course,  laid  me  open  on  the  flank.  My  friend 
suggested  that  this  might  be  said  of  a  good  deal  of 
hterary  work,  and  I  admitted  with  a  sigh  that  he 
was  right.  "There  you  are,"  said  he,  and  we  both 
laughed. 

"Well,"  I  said,  at  lunch,  "I  grant  your  premises. 
Why  should  this  chap  wish  to  fix  his  personality 
on  the  public  mind.'^" 

"Can't  you  see?  To  put  his  value  up,  of 
course." 


S80  ALIENS 

"Doing  .  .  .  why,  of  course,  he's  doing  it  for 
money.  Who  ever  does  anything  in  this  infernal 
world  except  for  money?" 

"But  since  he  failed — as  he  did,  you  remember — 
he  hasn't  any  value  to  speak  of." 

Mac  turned  in  despair  to  his  wife. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  a  chap  in  your  life? 
You'd  think,  to  hear  him,  he'd  never  heard  of  ap- 
propriations for  publicity  campaigns,  or  advertising 
schemes.  Things  do  themselves  in  his  world — you 
don't  even  have  to  drop  a  nickel  in  the  slot!" 

Bill  regarded  me  with  attention. 

"He's  got  something  up  his  sleeve,"  she  re- 
marked, sagely.  "If  he  keeps  us  guessing  we'll 
send  him  to  New  York  to  have  his  Christmas  din- 
ner by  himself." 

[:  "I'm  not  going  to  keep  you  guessing,"  I  said, 
"but  I  haven't  been  able  to  get  a  word  in  edgeway 
yet.  Leaving  the  great  cosmic  question  of  pub- 
licity, of  which  I  get  rather  tired  at  times  m  spite 
of  its  lucrative  side,  I  want  to  call  your  attention 
to  something — I  was  going  to  say  under  our  noses — 
something  close  by." 

They  gazed  at  me  in  doubt  and  then  looked  at 
each  other.  Mac  made  allusion,  tapping  his  fore- 
head the  while,  to  the  strain  of  Christmas  work. 
And  they  shook  their  heads. 

"Well,  go  on,"  humoured  Bill,  rising  to  bring  in 
the  coffee. 

"What's  this  wonderful  something  you've  dis- 
covered?" 

"I  have  reason  to  beheve,"  I  said,  without  look- 


ALIENS  S81 

ing  up  from  my  plate,  "that  Mrs.  CarviDe  had  a 
visitor  last  night." 

"No!"  they  ejaculated  in  unison.    I  nodded. 

"You  miss  something  by  sleeping  at  the  back. 
Just  as  I  was  comfortably  in  bed,  the  room  was 
flooded  with  the  blinding  white  glare  that  indicates 
a  passing  automobile.  This  particular  white  glare, 
however,  did  not  vanish  as  usual.  It  remained. 
My  attention,  which  was  only  partially  aware  of  it, 
gradually  became  undivided  and  led  me  to  sit  up 
and  look  out.  A  large  car  stood  opposite  the  house 
next  door,  the  two  headhghts  showing  up  the  road- 
way and  sidewalk  all  down  the  street.  Even  as  I 
watched,  a  tall  figure  came  down  from  the  house 
and  the  lights  went  out.  I  could  see  the  car  plainly 
as  a  dark  mass  under  the  trees.  And  that,  for  the 
best  part  of  half  an  hour,  was  all  I  did  see.  I  lay 
down  again  and  tried  to  focus  my  mind  on  this 
problem.  I  don't  mind  admitting  I  am  still  with- 
out a  solution.  I  lay  there  thinking  all  sorts  until 
the  white  glare  suddenly  illuminated  the  room 
again.  I  looked  out.  The  car  moved,  turned 
slowly  round,  and  sped  away  down  Pine  Street." 

They  sat  and  looked  at  me. 

"I  know  I  ought  to  have  told  you  before,"  I  said, 
"but  the  fact  is  I  was  so  puzzled  this  morning  when 
I  woke  and  remembered  the  incident,  that  I  didn't 
know  what  to  do.  It  seems  silly,  if  you  look  at  it 
in  the  cold  hght  of  day,  to  draw  any  conclusions 
from  such  a  trivial  thing.  I  mean,  if  we  had  known 
nothing  about  them   ..." 

"You  think  he's  visiting  her?"  said  Bill  gravely. 


382  ALIENS 

"I  didn't  say  so,"  I  answered,  "but  the  notion  was 
in  my  mind,  certainly.  If  so,  why  should  he  not? 
If  Mac  had  a  brother,  and  he  came  to  New  York  he 
would  not  hesitate  to  come  and  see  you." 

"Not  in  the  middle  of  the  night,"  she  objected. 

"No,  unless  he  was  pressed  for  time,  and  had, 
shall  we  say,  more  urgent  claims  on  his  attention." 

"Perhaps  he  came  to  visit  his  brother,  not  know- 
ing he  was  away  just  now." 

"I  thought  of  that  too.  Where  is  he  supposed  to 
be  just  now.'^" 

"Lord?  Jimmy  said  he  was  up-state  visiting 
Gottschalk,  the  millionaire  who  is  backing  the  Aerial 
Mail  Company." 

Nobody  spoke  for  a  minute  or  two.  At  length 
my  friend  rose  and  pushed  his  chair  up  against  the 
table. 

"Ah,  well,"  he  said,  looking  for  his  pipe,  "we 
can't  sit  here  chewing  the  rag  all  day." 

I  was  sitting  at  my  desk,  biting  my  pen  and 
staring  absently  at  the  whitey-brown  vista  of  the 
garden  with  the  cold  blue  ridge  of  the  Orange 
Mountains  showing  through  the  delicate  tracery  of 
the  wind-swept  trees,  when  I  heard  Bill  moving 
about  the  room  behind  me. 

"You're  not  working,"  she  observed  perfunctor- 
ily. I  nodded  assent.  I  often  wonder,  to  tell  the 
truth,  when  I  do  work.  Even  when  no  one  is  by 
to  tell  me  of  it,  I  seem  to  spend  most  of  my  time 
in  idleness. 

"I  was  thinking,"  I  said.  Perhaps  I  was.  She 
came  up  to  my  chair  and  looked  out  too. 


ALIENS  383 

"About — you  know — last  night?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  I  was  thinking  you,  being  a  woman,  would 
know  better  than  I  whether  there  is  a  storm  brew- 
ing." 

She  was  silent,  merely  looking  out  at  the  wintry 
landscape. 

"I  feel,"  I  went  on,  "that  being  a  rather  dried-up 
old  bachelor  puts  me  at  a  disadvantage.  What  can 
I  know  of  such  a  situation  as  we  imagine?  I,  who 
jog  along  from  day  to  day,  a  journeyman  scribbler! 
What  knowledge  or  experience  have  I  of  the  heights 
and  depths  of  passion?  What  can  Peeping  Tom 
know  about  it?" 

"Don't!"  she  said.  "We're  all  Peeping  Toms, 
as  far  as  that  goes.  I'm  sure,"  she  went  on,  "it's 
very  difficult  to  guess  what's  in  the  mind  of  a  woman 
like  her.  She's  very  handsome,  you  know.  She's 
one  of  those  women  who  are  rather  puny  and  pa- 
thetic in  their  'teens,  with  appealing  eyes,  but  who 
grow  big  and  healthy  later.  Marriage  does  wonders 
for  them." 

"If  the  marriage  is  happy,"  I  remarked  casually. 
The  silence  that  followed  was  so  long  that  I  twisted 
round  in  my  chair.  There  was  an  odd  expression  on 
my  friend's  face,  a  commingling  of  wisdom,  pity 
and  reminiscence. 

"What  have  I  said?"  I  asked. 

"No  marriage  is  happy,"  she  said  gravely. 

"Yes!"  I  responded. 

"Not  in  the  sense  you  understand  the  term. 
That's  what  we  mean  when  we  say  you  don't  know 
anything  about  it.     Marriage  suits  some  men  and 


384  ALIENS 

women  more  than  others,  but  that  isn't  to  say  the 
people  it  suits  are  any  the  happier.  In  fact,  it's 
often  the  other  way.  They're  frightfully  unhappy 
at  times.  Very  few  married  women  haven't  been 
on  the  point  of — of  making  a  dash  for  freedom  at 
some  time  or  other.  Women  you  wouldn't  accuse 
of  a  single  rebellious  thought  all  their  bom  days. 
You'd  say  they  were  crazy.  Perhaps  so,  at  the 
time.  They  get  all  on  edge.  Weak,  weedy  women 
are  different.  They  haven't  the  same  call  for  free- 
dom, somehow." 

**What  do  you  mean  by  this  dash  for  freedom 
business?"  I  asked.    Bill  looked  at  me  solemnly. 

"Marriage  is  a  ring-fence  round  a  pretty  small 
patch,  as  a  rule,"  she  observed.  "A  woman  goes 
into  it  gladly.  She  feels  young  and  weak  and  ig- 
norant, and  when  she's  married  she  feels  safe.  But 
when  she  grows  up  to  her  full  stature  of  mind  and 
body,  and  she's  no  longer  weak  and  ignorant,  it's 
different.    It's  no  longer  safety  first  with  her." 

"But  love   ...   I  began.    She  stopped  me. 

"Oh,  love's  got  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  it,  you 
sentimental  old  thing.  How  old  was  Juliet — 
fourteen,  wasn't  she?"  she  asked  suddenly,  staring 
out  of  the  window.    I  nodded. 

"Well,  there  you  are!"  She  has  many  of  her 
husband's  expressions.  "At  thirty-two,  say,  she 
would  have  been  a  fine,  big,  handsome  woman, 
knowing  the  world  and  alive  all  round.  The  chances 
are  she  would  have  had  a  storm,  as  you  call  it." 

"If  she'd  married  Romeo?"  I  asked. 

"'T  wouldn't  matter  who  she'd  married,"  she  re- 


ALIENS  385 

,* 

plied,  rubbing  her  nose.  "You're  thinking  of  love 
again,  I'll  be  bound.  I'm  not  talking  about  love, 
my  good  man,  I'm  talking  about  life." 

"Then  you  make  no  allowance  for  sentiment,"  I 
said. 

"Oh  don't  I!  I  make  any  amount  of  allowance 
for  sentiment.  It's  just  sentiment  such  women  .as 
we  are  talking  about  have  to  watch.  That's  what 
you  mean  by  love,  I  suppose.  It  is  always  prowling 
round  the  house,  trying  to  get  in.  As  a  rule,  there's 
no  chance,  for  married  women  are  too  busy  to  be 
eternally  thinking  about  love,  though  to  read  novels 
you'd  think  they  were." 

"A  married  woman,  according  to  you,  is  a  highly 
complex  organism,"  I  observed  smiling. 

"A  married  woman,  according  to  me,  is  precisely 
what  her  husband  has  made  her,"  she  retorted,  and 
adding,  "Think  that  over  while  you  get  on  with 
your  work,"  she  left  the  room. 

But  I  continued  to  stare  out  of  the  window. 
Somehow  I  was  stirred.  There  seemed  to  me  some- 
thing ominous  in  my  own  preoccupation  with  these 
affairs,  affairs  in  which  I  could  not,  even  had  I  the 
right,  to  meddle.  My  friend's  laconic  exposition 
only  deepened  the  dramatic  quality  of  the  situation. 
For  an  author  I  had  been  singularly  luckless  in 
meeting  drama  in  my  life.  I  had  often  had  my 
artistic  cupidity  excited  by  Mr.  Carville,  by  the 
way  he  was  continually  having  stimulating  adven- 
tures of  the  soul.  And  what  stirred  me  now  was  a 
vision  of  that  sober,  drab-grey  Httle  man,  going 
about  his  business  on  the  great  waters,  with  this 


386  ALIENS 

portentous  cataclysm  hanging  over  Ids  destiny.  And 
yet,  according  to  my  friend,  these  perilous  things 
were  constantly  on  the  brink  in  most  men's  lives. 
The  smug,  complacent  commuting  folk  we  knew  all 
had  these  moments  of  almost  unendurable  stress, 
yet  they  gave  no  sign.  I  had  a  sudden  sense  of 
futiHty.  As  ]\'Ir.  Carville  had  said  on  one  occasion, 
we  grope.  We  stumble  against  each  other  in  the 
dark,  we  hear  a  whisper  or  two,  or  a  cry,  and  the 
rest  is  silence.  I  understood,  I  thought,  why  so 
many  writers  avoid  life,  and  content  themselves 
with  gay  puppets  in  a  puppet  world.  Life  was  too 
difficult,  too  dangerous,  for  play,  and  they  can  only 
play. 

And  then  I  heard  the  postman's  knock,  and  sat 
waiting.  Footsteps  came  do^vn  and  went  up  again 
to  the  studio.  Tea  cups  clinked.  I  reahzed  that  I 
had  done  nothing  to  the  brochure  I  was  writing 
since  lunch.  Lethargy  is  cumulative.  The  longer 
one  idles  the  more  difficult  it  is  to  make  a  start.  I 
gave  it  up  and  put  my  pen  away. 

"A  letter  from  Cecil,"  they  said,  as  I  appeared 
on  the  landing.  Mac  was  crouching  over  an  etch- 
ing by  the  window,  a  big  magnifying  glass  in  his 
hand.  I  went  over  to  him  and  he  rose  and  handed 
the  print  to  me. 

"Oh!"  I  said.    "This  is  indeed  apropos:' 

It  was  an  etching,  by  the  painter-cousin,  of  the 
wrecked  aeroplane  of  which  he  had  spoken.  As 
was  fit  and  proper,  it  was  a  small  plate,  yet  the 
effect  upon  the  mind  was  of  a  vast  open  sky  and 
infinite,  rolhng  distances  of  land  and  sea.    It  brought 


ALIENS  387 

to  mind  the  grey  flatness  of  Essex,  the  lonely  reaches 
of  mud,  the  solitary  house  and  the  neighbourly 
hedges  of  the  narrow  roads.  And  it  did  this  quite 
independently  of  the  bizarre  structure  that  lay 
athwart  the  foreground,  like  some  immense  disabled 
insect  in  a  moment  of  exhaustion.  It  lay  there, 
prone  and  motionless,  a  sprawling  emblem  of 
despair.  And  aloft,  high  up,  as  though  in  subtle 
mockery  of  the  poor  human  endeavour  below,  a 
sea-bird  soared  with  wings  atilt,  sweeping  with 
effortless  grace  towards  the  grey  sea. 

"I  don't  care  for  remarques,"  muttered  Mac, 
pointing  to  a  sketch  on  the  margin. 

"Nor  I,"  I  agreed,  "but  this  isn't  on  the  plate, 
my  friend.  Moreover,  I  think  it's  rather  interesting. 
It  is  Carville,  I  believe,  Mr.  Francis  Lord  of  the 
New  York  Press." 

It  was  a  sinister  face  that  we  looked  on,  sketched 
on  the  impressed  margin,  and  very  different  from 
the  photos  in  the  papers.  The  head  had  been 
caught  in  an  attitude  of  leaning  against  a  wall,  so 
that  the  salience  of  the  jaw,  the  flare  of  the  nostrils, 
and  the  white  of  the  eye  were  accentuated  sharply. 
The  brow  was  high,  but  (I  fancied)  pinched  near  the 
crown,  and  the  large,  cavernous  nose  gave  the  whole 
face  an  expression  of  bird-like  rapacity  that  was 
corroborated  by  the  full  curved  lips.  And  in  the 
eye  I  fancied  also  that  I  detected  a  crazed  look. 

"Good  gracious!"  said  Bifl.  "What  a  bad- 
looking  man!" 

I  was  silent,  merely  returning  the  print  so  that 
my  friend  might  study  the  weaknesses  of  a  brother- 


388  ALIENS 

artist.    We  agreed  that  the  ink  had  dragged  in  one 
corner.     Bill  handed  me  the  painter-cousin's  letter. 

"High  Wigborough, 

"Essex. 
"Dear  Bill — 

"I  was  in  the  village  this  afternoon  and  called  at 
the  post-oflSce  for  some  stamps,  and  the  old  lady 
who  keeps  the  place,  which  is  about  seven  feet 
square,  and  hardly  high  enough  to  yawn  in,  was 
sticking  up  a  fresh  notice  about  the  Xmas  mails, 
giving  the  latest  dates  for  foreign  parts.  This  re- 
minded me  I  owed  you  a  letter,  and  here  it  is  with 
tons  of  good  wishes  to  everybody  for  a  happy  time 
and  no  end  of  prosperity  in  the  coming  year.  When 
are  you  coming  over  to  spend  a  holiday  with  us.'' 
You'd  love  this  part  of  the  world.  I'm  sure  you'd 
love  the  old  lady  at  the  post-office  as  much  as  you 
do  the  young  lady  at  the  post-office  over  there. 
She's  a  beautiful  old  person,  really.  She  lives  in  a 
cottage  set  well  back  from  the  road,  with  rose-trees 
on  each  side  of  a  narrow,  flagged  path,  and  honey- 
suckle all  over  the  house  right  up  to  the  thatch, 
which  is  quite  a  yard  thick.  I  have  a  water-colour 
of  her,  sitting  outside  her  door,  with  the  Royal 
Arms  and  Georgius  Rex  just  showing  over  her  cap, 
and  a  fat  tabby  cat  asleep  on  the  threshold.  It  was 
late  summer  when  I  did  it,  and  the  air  was  warm 
gold  with  purple  shadows.  I  know  it  is  a  detest- 
able trick  to  talk  painter's  shop,  but  I  can't  help  it 
sometimes.  I  am  reminded  of  this  by  the  expe- 
riences I've  had  recently  with  my  ^T-iVnd  Carville, 


ALIENS  389 

who  now  appears  in  the  daily  press  rather  fre- 
quently under  his  flying  name  of  Francis  Lord. 
There  is  a  great  row  on  between  the  papers  owned 
by  Lord  Cholme  (known  as  the  Stunt  Press)  and 
the  few  other  miserable  rags  which  try  to  survive. 
I  don't  pretend  to  know  what  it's  all  about.  There 
is,  you  know,  an  Aerial  Telephone  Company,  pro- 
moted by  Cholme  and  a  lot  of  other  guinea-pigs. 
Carville,  I  believe,  wanted  shares,  or  a  seat  on  the 
board,  or  something,  if  he  flew  to  America  under 
their  auspices.  You  know  how  jealously  these 
moneyed  people  guard  the  sources  of  their  wealth. 
Anyhow,  negotiations  hung  fiire,  for  Carville  has 
D'Aubigne  quite  under  his  influence,  and  nothing 
could  be  done  with  the  aeroplane  or  the  patents 
until  these  two  came  in  somehow.  The  rival  news- 
papers go  it  blind,  and  sling  all  sorts  of  journalistic 
mud  about.  I  won't  bore  you  with  it  in  a  Xmas 
letter.  What  I  was  going  to  say  was  about  Car- 
ville himself.  He  simply  says  *No!'  and  goes  on 
with  his  (to  him)  intensely  interesting  *  affaires  J 
And  here  is  one  of  those  coincidences,  as  the  old 
lady  at  the  post-oflSce  calls  them.  I  was  at  an  at- 
home  in  Chelsea  one  Sunday  not  long  ago,  and 
met  a  Mrs.  Hungerford,  Carville's  grand  bien- 
awieCy  on  and  off,  for  a  long  time.  She  had  recently 
married  a  wealthy  Australian,  who  was  also  present, 
a  large,  subdued  creature.  My  hostess  was  Mrs. 
Chase,  the  wealthy  widow  who  married  poor  Enderby 
Chase  the  artist.  I  forget  whether  you  ever  met 
them.  Superb  woman,  fit  to  be  a  duchess,  though 
she  says  her  ideal  existence  is  to  be  an  artist's  wife. 


390  ALIENS 

and  she  has  an  astonishing  house  on  Cheyne  Walk, 
with  stabhng  for  nine  horses  on  the  ground  floor,  and 
a  stupendous  yellow  family  victoria  that  Watkyns 
calls  a  Sarsaparilla  waggon.  Chase  died  a  few  years 
agOj  you  know,  and  his  widow  has  elevated  his 
memory  into  a  sort  of  cult.  She  bought  in  all  his 
really  good  pictures — dreary  landscapes  of  the 
Smeary  School! — and  instead  of  framing  them,  she 
has  had  them  panelled  into  the  walls  of  the  salon. 
I  know  this  is  the  right  way  to  'hang'  pictures,  but 
I'll  be  hanged  if  I  like  it.  I  kept  thinking  of  choco- 
late boxes!  I  suppose  the  walnut  wainscotting  gave 
me  the  idea.  One  of  Enderby's  pictures,  his  one- 
time famous  Astarte,  though  he  knew  no  more 
about  Astarte  than  about  Montezuma,  was  hung  in 
a  gold  frame  in  the  dining-room.  Chase  was  no  good 
at  figures  and  it  was  Mrs.  Hungerford's  remark  to 
me,  that  Enderby's  Astarte  if  found  in  Regent  Street 
would  get  three  months  without  the  option  of  a 
fine,  that  lured  me  to  her  side  later.  I  went  with 
Watkyns,  with  whom  I  was  having  lunch  in  his 
studio  on  the  Walk.  He  discovered  one  of  Mrs. 
Chase's  cards  on  his  mantel-piece  and  as  it  is  her 
rule .  to  bring  a  friend,  we  went.  In  spite  of  her 
worship  of  painters  for  Enderby's  sake,  Mrs.  Chase 
really  adores  music  and  musicians.  She  has  a 
Bechstein  grand  standing  on  an  oak  floor  polished 
like  glass,  with  tiger  and  bear-skins  lying  about.  I 
am  rather  helpless  among  musicians.  Mrs.  Hunger- 
ford  is  a  tall,  thin  girl  about  thirty,  with  curious 
flat,  grey  eyes  that  are  most  puzzling  to  meet  unless 
she  is  smiling,  which  is  only  seldom.     I  had  made 


ALIENS  391 

an  apologetic  reference  to  my  utter  ignorance  of 
Ravel  and  all  the  new  men,  and  she  replied 'drily  that 
I  wasn't  missing  much.  I  said  I  felt  the  lack  of 
musical  knowledge  when  talking  to  musicians. 

"'They  want  you  to  feel  it,'  she  said.  *  Musical 
people  don't  seem  to  have  any  minds,  only  vanity.' 
And,  by  Jove,  it  exactly  expressed  what  I  had  often 
felt.  After  supper  we  became  chummy  and  sat 
in  a  corner  talking  about  art  and  all  sorts  of  things. 
She  struck  me  as  extremely  experiencedy  as  though 
her  ideas  were  all  original  and  had  come  from  her 
own  contact  with  life.  I  suppose  knowing  so  many 
clever  men  has  caused  this.  I  mentioned  Carville 
as  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men  I'd  ever  met, 
and  she  said  calmly,  *Yes,  he  is.  I  know  him  very 
well.'  I  suddenly  remembered  the  other  side  of 
Carville's  manifold  nature  and  asked  if  I  had  made 
a  mistake.  She  said  with  a  laugh,  *Not  at  all.  I 
understand  him  perfectly.  We  are  excellent  friends 
when  we  meet.' 

"'Well,'  I  said,  *if  you  understand  him,  it  is 
more  than  I  do,'  and  I  told  her  Jiow  Carville  would 
come  over  to  my  place  and  prowl  round  the  studio 
and  watch  me  at  work.  I  said  I  thought  he  ought  to 
settle  down.  She  laughed  again  and  her  grey  eyes 
became  luminous. 

"*He  will  never  do  that,'  she  said.  *He  is  under 
some  curse,  I  think.  He  complains  he  is  forever 
doomed  to  be  under  the  influence  of  inferior  women. 
Inferior  women  are  quite  a  hobby  of  his.'  I  re- 
marked that  she  seemed  to  know  him  very  well 
and  her  eyes  became  dead  blank  again.     I  asked 


392  ALIENS 

if  she  knew  the  family,  and  she  nodded.  He  has  a 
brother,  clever  too,  but  in  a  different  way.  *0h, 
what  became  of  him.'*'  I  asked.  *I  suppose,'  she 
said,  'he  married  some  worthy  middle-class  crea- 
ture and  settled  down  somewhere.  He  wrote  a 
book,  but  it  didn't  sell.  I  didn't  read  it.  It  was 
about  machinery  and  the  sea,  and  I  loathe  the  sea. 
It  bores  me.' 

"Well,  my  dear  Bill,  I'll  bore  you  if  I  nrn  on 
like  this  much  longer.  But  I  was  very  much  struck 
by  this  girl  of  whom  D'Aubigne  had  told  me,  espe- 
cially as  she  mentioned  your  neighbour,  and  in 
view  of  Carville's  antics.  He  never  mentions  his 
own  affairs,  as  indeed  why  should  he?  But  he 
seems,  as  he  stands  or  sits  watching  me  at  work 
(for  I  have  at  last  knocked  it  into  his  head  that 
light  is  more  precious  to  an  artist  than  conversa- 
tion) he  seems  to  be  eternally  bothered  by  the 
fundamental  differences  that  exist  among  men.  He 
asks  *Why  do  you  do  it?*  Now  imagine  the  mind 
of  a  man  who  asks  an  artist  why  he  paints!  He 
will  stare  at  my  plate  as  I  work,  with  his  big  black 
brows  knitted,  as  if  in  a  trance.  And  suddenly  he 
will  shrug  his  shoulders  and  take  up  his  hat  and  go 
off  without  a  word.  Sometimes  he  doesn't  come 
for  several  days.  The  last  time  I  saw  him  was  a 
week  ago.  I  must  tell  you  about  it.  I  felt  all 
cramped  and  muggy,  and  as  the  day  was  fine,  hiked 
over  to  the  aerodrome.  \Mien  I  arrived  D'Aubigne 
w^as  looking  through  a  pair  of  prism  glasses.  *  Where's 
Carville?'  I  said  as  I  got  off.     He  handed  me  the 


ALIENS  S93 

glasses  and  pointed  up  between  two  masses  of 
billowy  clouds.  I  stared  and  finally  focussed  on  a 
minute  speck  against  the  blue.  It  was  incredible, 
and,  I  think,  sublime.  I  must  say  it  thrilled  me  to 
see  it.  It  is  something  new  in  life,  if  not  in  art,  this 
supreme  triumph  over  gravity.  I  am  serious! 
Slowly  he  passed  behind  the  cloud  and  I  came  back 
to  earth.  'How  high  is  he?'  I  asked  casually,  and 
it  was  like  a  match  to  tinder.  D'Aubigne's  bat- 
tered, sensual  old  face  lighted  up  and  he  cackled, 
*How  high?  How  do  I  know!  Come.  We  will 
ask  him!'  As  you  may  imagine,  I  nearly  fell  over 
in  my  surprise.  He  led  the  way  to  a  hutch  on  which 
a  tall  tripod  carried  an  aerial.  There  were  no 
windows,  and  it  appeared  to  be  a  kind  of  sound- 
proof call-box,  which  indeed  it  was.  We  went  in 
and  as  the  door  closed,  a  cluster  of  three  green 
lights,  very  small  but  of  extraordinary  brilliance, 
showed  up  above  a  set  of  instruments.  D'Aubigne 
sat  down  and  put  a  pair  of  receivers  to  his  ears.  I 
could  just  see  a  triangular  hole  in  front  of  him.  He 
began  to  pull  plugs  out  of  various  holes  and  insert 
them  in  other  holes,  and  presently  he  laughed  and 
said,  *  Comment!'  and  laughed  again.  Then,  'A 
gentleman  wishes  to  know  your  altitude  at  this 
moment.  What  is  the  reading?'  A  silence  and 
then,  'Four  thousand  metres?  So!  Wait!'  He  got 
up  and  offered  me  the  receivers.  I  sat  down  and 
put  them  on,  and  immediately  seemed  to  be  in  the 
midst  of  the  wildest  uproar.  It  was  like  kettle- 
drums playing  in  a  high  wind.  I  could  distinguish 
the  thunder  of  the  exhausts,  for  there  were  two 


394  ALIENS 

engines  and  one  of  them  was  missing  badly  and 
making  noises  like  gun-shots.  'Speak!'  said 
D'Aubigne  into  my  neck,  so  I  said,  'Hullo,  are  you 
there,  Carville?'  And  a  thin,  high,  metallic  voice, 
like  a  gramophone's,  sounded  among  the  noises. 
'Yes,  I'm  here.  What's  up.?'  'Oh,'  I  said,  'I'm 
only  trying  this  thing.  How  are  you.^^'  No  reply 
for  a  moment,  and  then,  'I  say,  you  don't  mind  if 
I  cut  you  out,  do  you  .  .  .  Having  a  beastly 
time  with  my  port  engine?'  'Sorry,'  I  said.  There 
was  no  answer.  I  told  D'Aubigne  what  Carville  had 
said,  and  we  went  out  into  the  open  air  again. 
You  know,  it  seems  marvellous,  though  I  don't 
suppose  it's  any  more  so  than  many  other  inven- 
tions. But  to  think  of  that  chap,  nearly  thirteen 
thousand  feet  in  the  air,  actually  talking  to  us  down 
on  the  earth  while  he  was  wrestling  with  a  battery 
or  sparking  plug,  or  something!  Think  of  liim 
sitting  in  the  midst  of  that  mass  of  metal  and  fabric, 
between  tlie  two  thundering  engines,  doing  six 
things  at  once,  rushing  along  at  sixty  miles  an  hour, 
alone,  magnificently  alone,  with  the  three  lights  of 
the  instrument  shining  like  emeralds  in  the  sun- 
light! Upon  my  word,  I  was  so  upset  with  the  ex- 
traordinary novelty  of  the  whole  experience  that  I 
had  some  difficulty  in  getting  into  harness  again. 
Talk  of  Glorious  Art  indeed!  D'Aubigne  says  Car- 
ville is  an  ass  about  Art.  But  has  he  not  compen- 
sations? 

"We  went  over  to  their  living  rooms  next  to  the 
workshops  and  D'Aubigne  made  tea.  I  said  it  was 
a  splendid  thing  and  he  ought  to  be  awfully  bucked 


ALIENS  395 

up  at  having  achieved  such  a  success.  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  *I  am  depressed,'  he  said.  'This 
country,*  and  he  waved  his  hand  towards  the 
landscape  outside,  'is  very  depressing.  Earth,  se^, 
and  sky.  Earth,  sea,  and  sky.  Nothing  else.  Flat, 
primitive  like  the  day  after  Creation.  Look!'  He 
pointed  to  where  a  barge,  brought  up  on  the  tide, 
lay  stranded  in  a  field  of  shining  mud.  'That  is  the 
Ark,  but  Noah  and  all  the  animals  save  we  are 
dead.  I  have  none  of  the  Dutchman's  love  for 
dikes  and  canals.  I  shall  go  to  the  Mediterranean.* 
'And  Carville.'^'  I  said.  He  cackled.  'Carville  will 
go  to  the  devil,  I  suppose.  You  are  to  blame.  You 
have  recalled  memories,  I  understand.  He  talks 
to  me  of  Rosa.  Rosa!  I  am  sick  of  the  name. 
You  would  think  he  had  learned  that  women  are 
all  the  same.  No.  He  has  the  profound  illusion. 
He  is  enchanted.    Rosa!* 

"Of  course,  you  must  take  all  this  with  reserve. 
D'Aubigne,  being  artist  and  man  of  science,  has  a 
vivid  imagination.  But  he  understands  Carville, 
and  appreciates  the  difference  between  him  and  the 
average  libertine.  With  Carville  it  is  always  a 
grande  affaire.  For  the  time,  as  D'Aubigne  quaint- 
ly puts  it,  his  love  is  like  a  red,  red  rose.  And  I  re- 
late my  adventures  to  you  because  you  have  roused 
my  interest  in  your  neighbours  and  it  is  only  fair 
for  me  to  reciprocate. 

"If  it  doesn't  get  lost  on  the  way  there  is  a  small 
package  coming  by  this  mail.  Bon  Noel!  And,  by 
the  way,  you  will  see  on  the  margin  of  the  etching 


396  ALIENS 

I  send  you  a  small  sketch  of  Carville's  head.  What 
do  you  think  of  it?  He  came  in  while  I  was  pulling 
a  proof  of  this  plate  and  looked  at  it  curiously. 
*My  smash?'  he  inquired,  and  I  said,  *Yes,  your 
smash,  old  chap.  How  do  you  like  it?'  And  he 
asked  me,  as  he  often  does,  'Why  do  you  do  it?* 
He  seems  to  have  some  sense  missing  in  his  make- 
up. He  can't  coordinate  the  actions  of  men.  Per- 
haps that  is  the  key  to  his  character.  D'Aubigne, 
who  used  to  paint,  as  a  student,  vast  canvases  de- 
picting Prehistoric  Man  fighting  a  mammoth,  or 
Perseus  chopping  up  Gorgons,  said  it  was  a  good 
plate  and  wished  he  had  gone  in  for  etching.  I 
fear  he  is  like  many  painters — ^he  doesn't  realize  the 
drudgery  and  technical  labour  involved.  Let  me 
know  your  opinion  soon. 

"All  good  wishes, 

"Cecil." 

Our  canary,  who  rejoices  in  the  name  of  Richard 
the  Lion-hearted,  chirped  for  his  customary  morsel 
of  cake,  and  I  rose  to  give  it  to  him.  Mac  was 
showing  his  wife  the  dragged  line  in  the  etching. 
Having  rationed  Richard,  I  stood  looking  out  of 
the  window.  A  keen  wind  was  blowing  and  fine 
powdered  snow  drove  over  the  open  lot  across  the 
street.  Coming  up  over  the  frozen  grass  I  saw  a 
tall  figure  in  a  scarlet  cloak.  The  vigour  of  her  gait 
deceived  me  at  first,  for  it  was  the  light  trip  of  a 
girl  in  her  teens,  and  then  I  saw  that  it  was  Mrs. 
Carville.  I  did  not  speak,  but  watched  her,  with 
lithe  figure  and  features  aglow,  cross  the  street  to 


ALIENS  ;397 

her  home.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  no  right  to 
call  attention  to  what  I  saw  or  imagined.  Even  if 
it  were  true,  as  my  friend  had  said,  as  Mr.  Carville 
himself,  in  his  homely  way,  had  remarked,  that 
women,  even  more  than  girls,  are  the  victims  of 
evanescent  illusions,  that  they  abandon  themselves, 
at  times,  to  quite  impossible  and  romantic  dreams, 
I  should  be  wise  to  stand  aside.  I  felt  that,  after  all. 
Miss  Fraenkel's  crystal-clear  bromidity  would  be  a 
delightful  change  after  so  much  intense  living  and 
introspection.  For  that  evening,  after  dinner,  as  I 
listened  to  the  music  of  the  Steersman's  Song  from 
the  Flying  Dutchman^  it  seemed  only  too  likely  that 
even  after  all  these  years,  so  deathless  is  passion  in 
some  hearts,  the  skilled  hand  of  Frank  Carville 
might  set  a  woman's  soul  vibrating  with  some  of 
the  old  ecstasy. 


CHAPTER  XV 

Conclusion 

IT  was  a  white  Yule-tide  that  year.  Late  on 
Christmas  Eve  I  crept  carefully  and  cir- 
cuitously  up  to  the  house  next  door  and  de- 
posited our  little  parcel  of  gifts  in  the  shadow 
of  the  porch.  In  an  hour  my  tracks  were  covered. 
Sleighs  passed,  in  the  stealthy  fashion  of  sleighs, 
the  jingle  of  harness  and  bells  mingling,  the  muffled 
figures  of  the  riders  looking  strangely  like  stuffed 
effigies  in  the  white  radiance  of  the  reflecting  snow. 
And  next  morning,  when  I  woke  ear^y,  snow  was 
still  falling.  But  at  breakfast,  rather  late  in  honour 
of  the  day,  the  sky  was  swept  to  a  clean,  clear 
transparent  azure,  and  the  sun  shone  with  dazzling 
brightness  on  road  and  roof.  Working  industriously 
with  our  broad  wooden  shovels  to  clear  a  path  from 
the  porch  to  the  street,  I  stole  a  glance  next  door. 
I  was  rather  glum,  I  remember,  to  discover  no  sign 
of  life,  and  later,  over  hot  whisky,  we  debated 
whether  we  were  really  well  enough  acquainted  to 
give  presents.  It  is  a  habit  of  ours,  however,  very 
hard  to  break.  Our  idea  is  to  give  something  which 
the  recipient  will  like,  and  this  involves  thought, 
which  is  the  essence  and  true  spirit  of  giving.  Some 
days  before  I  had  been  despatched  to  Chinatown 
for  the  express  purpose  of  buying  coloured  tops, 
snakes  and  kites.  Bill  had  made  Indian  suits  for 
the  boys,  and  Mac  had  returned  from  the  stores 

398 


ALIENS  399 

with  a  coasting  sled,  and  a  small  pair  of  roller 
skates.  Miss  Fraenkel  was  to  have  a  copy  of 
Spenser's  Faery  Queen  bound  by  us  in  blue  leather 
and  stamped  with  an  original  design.  As  Bill  often 
says,  we  can  make  anything  in  the  world  except 
money.  Curiously  enough,  it  seems  to  me  now,  we 
forgot  Mr.  Carville.  Perhaps  that  too  helps  to 
describe  him,  for  he  gave  me  the  impression  of 
being  so  utterly  complete  in  himself,  so  very  inde- 
pendent of  the  trivial  human  weaknesses  and  needs 
on  which  Christmas  essentially  depends,  that  a 
present  to  him  was  out  of  the  question.  We  did 
not  envy  him  this  position.  We  simply  forgot 
him  in  the  general  rush  of  seasonable  sentiment, 
and  put  ourselves  to  all  sorts  of  delightful  incon- 
venience in  discovering  what  his  family  would  like. 
And  when,  later  in  the  fore-noon,  as  we  were  sitting 
round  the  studio  stove,  we  heard  a  clatter  of  skates 
in  the  porch,  and  a  single  knock,  as  though  some 
small  person  had  stood  atip-toe  to  reach  the  Can- 
terbury Pilgrim,  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  we  went 
down  in  a  body  to  open  the  door.  Messrs.  Giuseppe 
Mazzini  and  Benvenuto  Cellini  stood  without,  the 
former  with  his  sled  over  his  shoulder,  both  mujQSed 
to  the  chin,  their  red  cheeks  and  bright  eyes  beau- 
tiful to  behold. 

"Hullo!"   I   said.      "Now,    where   did   you   get 
those?" 

Benvenuto   looked   down   critically   at   the   new 
leather  straps  of  the  skates. 

"Ma  says,"  began  Beppo,  as  though  reciting  a 
lesson,  "Ma  says,  we  thank  you  very  much  for  the 


400  ALIENS 

things  and" — he  glanced  at  his  brother,  who  was 
watching  him — "and  we  wish  you  a  Merry  Christ- 
mas." 

"Thank  you.  Same  to  you,"  we  said,  filling  the 
doorway.    "Where  are  you  going  now?" 

"Pine  Street,"  said  Beppo. 

"Skates  not  much  use  now,  eh?'* 

"Oh,  he's  just  tryin'  'em,"  it  was  explained. 

"Well,  good  luck.  Eat  plenty  of  turkey,  and 
come  and  see  us  again  soon," 

They  seemed  hesitating  about  something,  looking 
bashfully  at  each  other  and  then  at  us.  We  all 
looked  down  at  them  benevolently. 

"You  come  too,"  muttered  Beppo,  and  Ben  put 
his  hand  into  mine  with  a  charming  gesture. 

It  was  my  turn  to  hesitate.    Mac  laughed. 

"Come  on,   old   man,"  he   said.       "We'll  both 

go- 

And  we  did.     For  two  solid  hours,  oblivious  of 

churchgoers,  we  slid  down  Pine  Street  and  toiled  up 
Pine  Street,  rejoicing  in  the  keen  air,  the  flying 
snow,  and  the  delighted  shouts  of  the  youngsters. 

"Now  come  in  and  have  some  candy,"  said  we. 

As  we  knocked  the  snow  off  our  boots  in  the 
porch  Bill  came  to  the  door  looking  pleasantly 
excited. 

"She's  here!"  she  whispered,  and  we  entered, 
struck  suddenly  dumb  like  children,  took  off  our 
boots  and  went  upstairs  to  the  studio. 

Quite  naturally,  Mrs.  Carville  had  stepped  in  to 
thank  her  neighbour  for  the  little  leather  Renais- 
sance purse   we  had  made  for  her.     She  embar- 


ALIENS  401 

rassed  us  yet  more  by  rising  when  we  came  in. 
My  friend,  a  most  courteous  and  punctilious  gen- 
tletaan,  begged  her  to  be  seated.  Shejwas  wearing 
her  scarlet  cloak,  and  her  eloquent  features  were 
illumined  with  conflicting  emotions. 

"I  did  not  know,"  she  said  as  I  was  getting  the 
box  of  candy.  "I  did  not  know  that  people  could 
be  so  kind." 

"It  is  Christmas,"  explained  my  friend  lightly. 
"And  we  always  like  to  be  jolly,  you  know.  When 
is  Mr.  Carville  due?  " 

A  swift  shadow  crossed  her  face  and  was  gone. 

"How  can  I  know?"  she  replied.  "Perhaps  next 
week,  perhaps   .    .    .   but  I  do  not  know." 

"I  was  just  saying,"  said  Bill  hurriedly,  "what 
a  pity  he  couldn't  have  got  in  for  Christmas." 

"Never,"  said  Mrs.  Carville,  watching  the  chil- 
dren eating  chocolates.  "Never  can  he  get  in  for 
Christmas.  Every  year  it  is  the  same  since  we  are 
married.    Always,  always  at  sea." 

She  looked  around  at  us  vaguely,  as  though  she 
feared,  somehow,  that  we  did  not  believe,  or  under- 
stand her.  But  I  think  we  did.  I  think  we  saw 
suddenly  the  secret  of  this  lonely  woman's  soul. 
We  saw  it  as  she  looked  round  at  us,  the  immediate 
and  precipitous  chasm  between  such  a  life  as  she 
led,  and  the  life  of  one  like  my  friend,  ever  close  to 
her  husband,  understanding  his  whims,  his  fears, 
his  hopes,  his  follies  and  his  victories.  We  saw  the 
desolation  of  the  sea-wife,  the  long  lonely  nights, 
the  ever-present  apprehension  of  loss.  We  under- 
stood the  pathos  of  the  scaldino.    And  swift  upon 


402  ALIENS 

this  new  interpretation  we  saw  the  great  dangers  of 
such  a  life  to  a  woman  of  imperfect  culture,  strong 
passion  and  yet  noble  aspiration.  We  saw,  too, 
another  and  more  particular  tragedy  possible  to 
her,  in  being  forever  debarred  from  her  husband's 
innermost  life.  That  vague  look  of  distress  was 
pregnant  with  meaning.  She  wished  to  say — how 
much!  Yet  in  English  she  had  not  the  words.  For 
a  moment  there  was  a  silence,  and  then  once  more 
she  rose,  this  time  to  bid  us  adieu.  We  were  all 
under  an  impulse,  I  have  since  learned,  to  press  her 
to  stay  to  dinner.  Each  was  doubtful  how  the 
others  would  take  it,  and  with  reason,  for  this  one 
feast  of  the  year  has  taken  on  a  sacramental  char- 
acter in  recent  times.  We  prefer,  without  any 
diminution  of  our  Christian  charity  and  goodwill, 
to  eat  it  by  ourselves.  And  so  Mrs.  Carville  bade 
us  good-bye,  and  was  followed  unwillingly  by  two 
young  gentlemen  who  wanted  to  stay. 

"I'll  come  over  this  evening  and  bring  Ben  and 
Beppo  for  an  hour,  may  I?"  I  said. 

"You  must  not  let  them  be  in  your  way,"  she 
replied.  The  smile  of  the  children  was  reward  for 
a  good  deal  of  inconvenience. 

"Mrs.  Carville,  you  mustn't  put  it  that  way. 
We  shall  always  be  glad  to  have  them,  out  of  busi- 
ness hours.  And  to-night  is  holy  to  children  every- 
where. They  shall  light  the  candles  on  our  tree. 
You  know  what  Flaubert  once  said  of  children — *a 
little  thing  like  that  in  the  house  is  the  only  thing 
that  matters.' 

Her  eyes  dropped  to  the  heads  of  the  children  in 


ALIENS  403 

front  of  her,  and  her  face  became  suddenly  grave, 
set  in  a  pose  of  quiet  thought. 

"Did  he  say  so?"  she  remarked  soberly.  "Well, 
perhaps  he  was  right."  And  she  took  the  children 
by  the  hand  and  went  out. 

And  we  had  them  back  in  the  evening,  which  be- 
came uproarious.  My  friend  greeted  them  dressed 
up  as  Santa  Claus,  with  an  immense  cotton-wool 
beard  and  motor-goggles.  We  initiated  them  into 
the  mysteries  of  Hunt  the  Slipper  and  Musical 
Chairs.  Indeed,  when  neighbours  began  to  drop  in, 
as  they  did  later  on,  they  interrupted  five  children 
playing  Nuts  in  May.  Foolish  old  parlour-tricks 
we  had  forgotten  since  our  own  early  childhood 
came  back  to  memory  and  evoked  shrieks  of  laughter. 
At  ten,  when  I  took  them,  well  wrapped  up,  down 
our  snow-trench  and  along  the  side-walk  to  their 
own  door,  they  were  in  a  trance  of  mingled  happi- 
ness and  fatigue. 

"Here  they  are,  safe,  Mrs.  Carville,"  I  said  as 
she  opened  the  door,  "but  very  sleepy." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  she  said.  "They  must  go 
to  bed.  But  you  will  come  in,  and  drink  a  glass  of 
wine.''    No? " 

"Yes,"  I  said,  suddenly  pushing  aside  the  diffi- 
dence that  years  of  literature  had  bred.  "Yes,  I 
will  take  a  glass  of  wine  with  you,  Mrs.  Carville. 
To  the  coming  year." 

"Oh,  but,"  she  said,  laughing  over  her  shoulder 
as  she  led  the  way  into  the  parlour,  "Have  you 
the  gift  of  good  fortune  that  you  bring  to  me  for  this 
next  year?    I  hope  you  have.    Here  is  the  wine. 


404  ALIENS 

My  husband  gets  it  when  he  goes  to  Ancona.  The 
wine  of  Umbria.  You  Hke  it?" 
'■  "To  next  year,"  I  said  as  she  filled  two  glasses 
from  a  large  wickered  flask.  "And  what  is  left  of 
this,"  I  added.  She  sat  on  a  white  chair  in  front 
of  a  wall  covered  with  books,  a  brilliant,  tragic,  yet 
smiling  figure  of  a  beautiful  woman,  charming  in 
the  kindly  coquetry  of  the  moment.  For  that  is 
how  I  interpreted  her  mood,  that  she  divined  my 
diffidence  with  feminine  quickness  and  sought  inno- 
cently enough  to  help  me  along.  And  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  take  the  chance,  should  it  appear,  and 
warn  her  of  what  we  had  feared.  She  would  take  it 
from  me,  knowing  of  my  diflSdence.  As  she  sat 
there,  she  filled  one  of  my  ideals:  the  robust  and 
beautiful  mother.  I  will  have  none  of  your  pale, 
puling  madonnas.  I  have  never  been  under  the 
influence  of  women,  but  I  delight  in  them  tall  and 
strong  and  with  the  splendid  beauty  of  health  and 
maturity.  Against  her  husband's  books,  which 
made  a  background  of  colour  and  gold  like  old 
tapestry  for  her  head,  she  was  a  wonderful  com- 
plexity of  vigorous,  abounding  life  and  still  decora- 
tive outline.  She  turned  and  looked  at  me  after 
setting  down  her  glass  and  found  me  watching  her. 
She  smiled  in  a  friendly  way. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  "we  have  bought  a  home 
on  Staten  Island.'*  Well,  when  we  are  fixed,  you 
will  come  and  see  us — when  my  husband  is  home. 
You  will,  all.?" 

"I  will  anyhow,"  I  said.  "I  like  your  husband 
and  I  hke  your  two  boys,  and  ..." 


ALIENS  405 

"And  me?"  she  inquii'ed  with  a  smile  that  pursed 
her  lips.    "You  no  like  me?"    I  laughed. 

"I  did  not  say  that,"  I  observed.     "How  could 
it  be  otherwise?    Even  though  you  will  be  offended, 
I  must  wonder  if  you  know  how  much  you  mean 
to  him." 
J  "To  him?"  she  echoed  vaguely,  in  alarm. 

"To  your  husband,"  I  went  on.  **You  see,  he 
has  told  me  a  good  deal  of  his  life.  And  I  think 
you  have  made  all  the  difference  in  it.  He  is  not  a 
noisy  man,  you  know,  but  he  made  it  very  clear  at 
times  how  very  much  you  mean  to  him." 

She  was  looking  at  me  steadily  while  I  said  this, 
stroking  little  Ben's  head  as  he  slumbered.  Her 
eyes  were  very  bright,  and  they  searched  my  face 
relentlessly. 

"And  you  think  I  do  not  know  that?"  she  asked 
slowly. 

"You  will  think  me  presumptuous  to  have  said 
so  much.  You  must  forgive  a  shy  man  who  means 
no  ill.  Of  course,  you  know  that.  What  I  pray  for 
this  coming  year  is  that  you  will  not  forget  it." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  I  fixed  my  eyes  on 
a  brass  ash-tray  and  a  row  of  corn-cobs  that  stood 
on  a  little  table  by  the  radiator.  At  length  she  rose 
and  gently  lifted  the  children  to  their  feet,  holding 
them  close  to  her. 

"You  think  bad  of  me,  then?"  she  queried  in  a 
curiously  toneless  voice. 

"Who?     I?" 
'     "All  of  you." 

"You  know  we  do  not.     You  must  blame  only 


406  ALIENS 

me  for  this.  We  think  bad  of  you!  Listen,  Mrs. 
Carville.  My  business  is  with  books  and  you  may 
think  I  know  nothing  of  the  life  you  and  your  hus- 
band live.  But  my  business  is  also  with  humanity. 
It  is  for  humanity  I  live,  for  them  I  work,  and  their 
praise  is  my  reward.  I  am,  in  a  way,  in  love  with 
humanity.  All  the  time  I  want  people.  They  are 
the  only  thing  that  matters.  And  this  gives  me  a 
light  on  a  good  deal  you  might  think  I  missed.  I 
know  how  quickly  people  break  and  are  carried 
away.  I  know  the  strongest  are  often  the  weakest. 
I  know  we  often  give  way  just  when  we  feel  strong. 
I  know  something  of  illusions.  So  I  have  spoken. 
To-morrow  you  will  laugh  and  say,  *It  don't  matter 
what  he  thinks.'  And  I  still  wish  you  a  Happy  New 
Year.  Will  you  wish  me  one.''  Because  I  love  peo- 
ple, humanity,  so  much?"  And  I  made  my  way, 
rather  overcome  by  feehng,  out  to  the  hall.  As  I 
raised  the  latch  to  go  out,  I  looked  back  at  her. 
She  stood  at  the  parlour  door,  the  light  of  the  hall- 
lamp  throwing  her  features  into  sharp  relief. 

"Wait,"  she  said  softly.    I  waited. 

"You  think  bad  of  me?"  she  said  again.  "Why, 
what  have  I  done?" 

"No!"  I  said.  "You  wrong  us.  We  should  not 
dare  ..." 

"Surely,"  she  replied,  looking  at  me  in  an  odd, 
arch  manner.  "So  I  was  thinking.  Good  night. 
It  is  Christmas.  I  do  not  think  bad  of  you.  Good 
night." 

And  then  I  was  running  through  the  snow. 

I  did  not  recoimt  this  conversation  in  all  its  de- 


ALIENS  407 

tails  to  the  supper  party  I  found  in  the  studio.  I 
wanted  to  think  it  out.  I  wanted  to  recall  and 
consider  this — ^to  me — very  unusual  interview  with 
a  married  woman.  I  was  reminded,  as  I  lay  un- 
sleeping that  night,  of  Mr.  Carville's  enigmatic 
saying  that  *the  things  in  books  had  always  eluded 
him.'  As  one  with  a  certain  interest  in  books,  I  had 
remembered  his  words.  And  it  seemed  that,  if  I 
looked  at  Kfe  honestly,  the  things  in  books  would 
elude  me  too.  The  problem  occupied  me  for  days. 
I  was  aghast  at  my  own  obtuseness,  for  I  was 
unable  to  decide  from  Mrs.  Carville's  conduct 
what  her  real  attitude  towards  us  might  be.  I  did 
not  know  whether  she  were  wayward  or  not.  I  felt 
bitterly  that  such  things  could  not  happen  in  a 
book,  in  a  best  seller. 

And  when  the  days  passed,  white  shrouded,  and 
we  discussed  the  theories  we  had  made  and  demol- 
ished, I  found  to  my  astonishment  that  my  friends 
had  taken  up  a  remote  position  on  the  subject. 
They  were  extremely  doubtful  about  my  story  of 
the  visitor.  Most  likely,  said  they,  it  was  a  late 
Store  delivery  van.  I  had  imagined  so  much.  They 
paid  detestable  tribute  to  my  imaginative  powers. 
Married  people  are  like  this.  With  disconcerting 
abruptness,  they  wheel  round  together  and  go  off 
at  some  incalculable  tangent,  serenely  unconscious 
of  any  need  for  explanation.  They  made  matters 
worse  by  harping  on  my  imagination.  And  they 
capped  all  by  declaring  that  I  was  a  bad  man  and 
hoped  I  would  keep  my  evil  thoughts  to  myself  at 
the  Festive  Season. 


408  ALIENS 

It  is  here  that  Miss  Fraenkel  interposed,  all  un- 
consciously, and  became  the  cause  of  our  presence 
at  a  most  singular  catastrophe,  the  collapse  of  the 
aeroplane  in  the  snow.  For  had  we  not  gone  out 
that  night  to  visit  jVIiss  Fraenkel  and  with  her  see 
the  New  Year  safely  born,  we  should  have  had  no 
vivid  memory  of  that  terrible  descent,  nor  under- 
stood how  Fate  had  woven  our  neighbours'  des- 
tinies, and  how  inexplicably  she  can  drive  to  ruin 
at  the  moment  of  victory. 

My  friends  had  been  to  New  York  during  the 
day,  I  remember,  visiting  friends  in  Lexington 
Avenue,  and  they  mentioned  at  dinner  a  report 
in  the  paper  that  Mr.  Francis  Lord  was  to  fly  from 
the  Gottschalk  grounds,  on  the  banks  of  Lake 
Champlain,  to  New  York  and  give  a  demonstration 
of  the  aeroplane  over  the  city.  New  machines  had 
come  from  England,  hope  sprang  eternal  in  the 
reporting  breast,  and  events  of  staggering  scientific 
import  were  foreshadowed.  Other  experts  were  pes- 
simistic. They  claimed  their  own  apparatus  was 
better  than  D'Aubigne's  and  so  got  a  little  adver- 
tisement for  themselves.  Other  experts  again 
blamed  the  administration  in  a  vague  way.  An 
eminent  actress  was  interviewed  and  spoke  of  her 
new  telephone  play  without  adding  much  to  the 
national  stock  of  wisdom.  A  famous  evangehst  of 
the  rough-house  type  proposed  to  use  the  new 
apparatus  for  reaching  distant  settlements. 

I  don't  think  we  took  the  news  very  seriously. 
We  are,  as  I  have  said,  inured  to  wonders  and  in- 
clined to  let  science  do  her  worst.     We  belong  to 


ALIENS  409 

that  class  of  people  who,  although  they  keep  silent 
on  the  subject,  hate  science  very  heartily.  My 
friend  trumpets  science  loudly  enough  at  times,  I 
know;  but  he  hates  her  in  his  heart,  for'  he  loves 
children  and  birds  and  flowers,  and  the  colours  of 
the  distant  hills  when  evening  falls.  And  like  us, 
he  admires  Miss  Fraenkel,  perhaps  the  most  un- 
scientific creature  in  the  United  States.  He  feeds 
her  passion  for  details  of  English  life  in  the  most 
shameless  way.  On  this  particular  evening  he  en- 
tranced her  with  a  description  of  the  Scottish 
custom  of  sitting  on  the  plinth  of  St.  Paul's  Cathe- 
dral in  London  and  welcoming  the  new  year  with 
bottles  of  whisky.  Every  Scotsman  south  of  the 
Tweed  was  under  oath  to  appear  in  the  churchyard 
in  kilts  and  tartan-plaid  at  midnight.  Most  of  them, 
he  added,  wore  red  beards.  Miss  Fraenkel's  fine 
hazel  eyes  grew  round  as  she  visualized  this  frightful 
throng  gathered  among  the  graves  of  the  church- 
yard. It  occurred  to  me  that  it  only  showed,  after 
all,  how  difficult  it  is  to  convey  in  words  a  just 
notion  of  a  foreign  land,  and  how  easy  it  is  for 
"travellers'  tales"  to  become  incredible  fabrications. 
How  would  the  quiet  townships  of  rural  England, 
where  the  names  of  people  and  places  go  back  to 
Saxon  days,  credit  us  if  we  told  them  of  our  tavern 
known  as  Slovitzky's,  where  citizens,  of  all  the 
races  of  Europe,  sang  "Auld  lang  Syne".''  Not  in 
kilts,  it  is  true,  but  in  costumes  even  more  surpris- 
ing to  the  aforesaid  quiet  townships.  We  get  a 
good  deal  of  fun  out  of  Miss  Fraenkel,  no  doubt, 
but  it  may  be  that  she,  without  ever  giving  away 


410  ALIENS 

the  secret,  gets  a  good  deal  of  fun  out  of  us.  Some- 
times there  is  a  whimsical  glint  in  her  hazel  eyes 
that  makes  me  reflect  .    .    . 

We  were  chatting  quietly,  after  we  had  left  her, 
full  of  good  resolutions,  and  we  were  climbing  Pine 
Street,  the  deep  snow  making  the  passage  difficult, 
when  we  heard  the  strange  sound  of  the  rejoicing 
in  New  York,  twenty  miles  away.  And  it  was 
without  any  thought  of  coming  peril,  without  any 
thought  of  our  neighbours,  that  we  paused  at  the 
top  of  the  ridge  and  looked  across  the  valley.  In- 
deed, we  spoke  of  a  previous  New  Year  when  we 
had  salhed  out  from  our  flat  and  joined  the  tu- 
multuous citizens  in  the  streets.  Above  us  was  the 
dark  blue  sky  of  a  wintry  midnight,  obscured  here 
and  there  by  indeterminate  blotches  of  moving 
cloud,  and  far  away  to  the  eastward  lay  a  long,  low 
glare  pierced  by  a  single  white  light,  the  lantern  of 
the  Metropolitan  Tower  in  New  York. 

We  paused  and  stood  close  together  upon  the 
immediate  edge  of  the  vacant  plot,  now  several 
feet  deep  in  snow,  our  figures  throwing  long  shadows 
upon  the  ghostly  purity  of  the  covering.  And  we 
became  aware  that  we  were  not  watching  so  much 
as  listening,  for  on  the  freshening  easterly  wind 
there  was  borne  such  a  rumour  as  men  are  not 
often  permitted  to  make  or  to  hear.  It  could 
scarcely  be  called  a  noise;  it  was  rather  a  terrible 
and  confusing  'presence  translated  into  sound.  So 
enormous  was  it,  and  so  distant,  that  it  enfolded 
us  like  a  foreboding  of  disaster.  It  was  as  though 
one  were  listening  to  the  cheerine  of  innumerable 


ALIENS  411 

myriads  on  another  planet.  There  was  neither 
cessation  to  it  nor  paroxysm,  neither  surging  up  nor 
dying  away.  It  was  a  continuous  and  prodigious 
drone.  And  the  wonder  of  it  was  driven,  if  pos- 
sible, a  notch  higher  when  it  was  known  that  this 
uproar  was  caused,  not  by  the  moans  of  a  lost 
world  falling  down  through  inconceivable  spaces  to 
Gehenna,  but  by  the  million  tin  horns  which  the 
people  of  New  York  deemed  a  fitting  tribute  to  the 
New  Year.  It  was  a  fan-fare  in  excelsis,  defying 
criticism  and  distance.  It  was  the  apotheosis  of 
Manhattan,  a  sky-scraper  of  dizzy  sound.  It  was, 
moreover,  the  expression  of  a  primal  and  singularly 
innocent  joy,  the  joy  of  a  young  nation  on  behold- 
ing a  New  Year.  It  was  almost  as  though,  in  the 
cataclysm  of  hideous  and  unlooked-for  calamities,  in 
the  vanishing  of  cities  and  kingdoms,  in  the  irrup- 
tion of  mountains  and  the  sinking  of  titanic  ships 
beneath  the  waves,  even  the  recurrence  of  the  sea- 
sons had  become  an  adventure  and  a  matter  of 
supreme  wonder. 

A  million  tin  horns! 

I  suppose. it  was  our  preoccupation  with  the  so- 
lemnity of  the  hour  and  the  stupendous  accom- 
paniment of  it  that  prevented  our  seeing  at  first  a 
strange  and  disquieting  signal.  My  friend  suddenly 
grasped  my  arm  and  pointed  to  a  black  bank  of 
cloud  over  Newark,  w^here  there  shone  a  tiny  con- 
stellation of  three  green  lights.  And  the  sound  of 
New  York's  jubilation  was  forgotten.  With  mur- 
mured exclamations  we  stood  with  our  faces  raised 
towards  this  new  yet  familiar  portent.     And  as  we 


412  ALIENS 

gazed  the  green  rays  were  borne  beyond  the  cloud 
bank  and  were  seen  moving  more  and  more  rapidly 
against  the  dark  blue  of  the  star-lit  heavens.  Moved 
as  by  one  impulse,  we  plunged  into  the  snow  and 
took  a  few  steps,  as  though  to  gain  a  nearer  view  of 
this  strangely  beautiful  object.  Almost  imme- 
diately it  was  above  us  and  the  thuttering  roar  of 
its  machinery  came  dully  to  our  ears  in  waves  and 
sharp  gusts  of  sound.  And  we  cried  "Oh!"  in- 
voluntarily, for  we  could  see  the  dark  spread  of 
the  vans  plunging  frantically  in  the  air.  I  remem- 
ber I  stretched  out  my  arms  in  an  impotent  gesture 
of  aid,  for  with  the  speed  of  a  bird  of  prey  the  dark 
mass  lurched  in  a  flat  swaying  parabola  towards 
the  earth,  spinning  the  while  upon  itself,  and  strik- 
ing the  deep  bed  of  snow,  burst  into  a  mass  of 
blinding  flame. 

So  sudden  was  the  catastrophe  that  we  stood 
there  in  the  brilliantly  illuminated  snow,  rigid  with 
stupefaction,  staring  at  the  intense  glare.  A  pa- 
trolman rushed  up  to  us  and  asked  in  a  scared  way 
what  it  was.  Receiving  no  reply,  he  ran  forward 
a  few  steps,  throwing  us  into  temporary  shadow, 
looked  round  uncertainly,  and  then  struck  with  a 
fresh  idea,  plunged  into  the  road  and  made  for  the 
fire  call-box  at  the  corner.  And  almost  as  though 
his  presence  had  been  the  cause  of  the  fire,  it  dimmed, 
flickered,  flared  and  went  out,  leaving  us  in  dark- 
ness. Slowly  we  moved  towards  it.  The  patrolman 
came  back.  We  reached  a  black  hole  in  the  snow 
and  tripped  over  twisted  snarls  of  wire.  We  heard 
the  patrolman  asking  urgently  what  had  happened. 


ALIENS  4J3 

"It  is  finished,  all  finished,"  I  said  vaguely. 

"Sure,"  he  said,  "but  what  was  it  anyhow?" 

"I  think,"  I  replied,  "that  it  was  an  aeroplane. 
It  came  down,  you  know,  and  the  gasoline  caught 
fire,  and  ..."  I  found  a  box  of  matches  and 
struck  a  light,  but  the  wind  blew  it  out. 

And  then  other  people  began  to  arrive. 

The  following  day  was  memorable  to  us,  as  I  have 
hinted,  for  it  revealed  to  us  the  enterprise  of  a 
modern  free  and  enlightened  press.  Bill  said  no 
husband  of  her's  should  ever  take  assignments  to 
interview  people  if  that  was  the  way  of  it.  But 
the  day  after  that  was  memorable,  to  me  especially. 
The  hue  and  cry  was  gone,  our  little  happenings 
were  forgotten  and  some  other  home  was  besieged 
by  the  reporters.  I  had  started  out  on  the  frozen 
snow  to  g'o  to  the  post-office  with  some  manuscript 
when  I  met  Beppo  and  Ben  with  the  sled,  bound  for 
a  certain  slope  which  they  credited  with  famous 
tobogganing  virtues.  They  greeted  me  as  if  I  were 
one  of  them;  seriously  they  turned  their  faces  up 
to  mine  as  they  expounded  their  plans.  I  was  aware 
of  an  inward  fluttering  of  pride,  for  it  is  no  small 
matter  to  win  the  confidence  of  small  children.  I 
went  with  them  towards  the  hill  they  spoke  of.  It 
lay  at  the  end  of  an  avenue  of  superb  trees  whose 
black,  leafless  twigs  bore  their  frosting  of  snow  like 
strings  of  jewels  in  the  glittering  air.  The  wind 
blew  up  the  avenue  keenly  in  our  faces  as  we  trudged. 
And  then,  where  the  trees  ended,  the  hill  fell  away 
at  our  feet,  the  valley  lay  far  and  wide,  the  steel- 


414  ALIENS 

blue  river  winding  below,  and  in  the  distance  the 
domes  and  towers  of  the  Metropohs. 

"Look!"  I  said,  stooping  down  to  them  and 
pointing.  "Do  you  know  what  that  is?"  They 
nodded  and  looked  at  me  smiling.  "N'York,"  they 
whispered. 

"When  is  father  coming  home?"  I  asked. 

"Soon,"  said  Beppo.  "Ma  was  cryin'  this  mom- 
ing." 

"Why,"  I  said  in  astonishment.  "And  does  she 
cry  when  he  comes  home?" 

"Oh,  no,"  he  repHed  slowly.  "She  cheers  up 
when  he  comes  home.  It's  the  storm,  I  guess. 
When  the  wind  blows  she  cries  a  good  bit," 

And  the  next  moment  they  were  flying,  face 
forward,  down  the  hill. 

I  was  roused  from  the  study  into  which  this 
plunged  me  by  Miss  Fraenkel's  interest  in  the 
catastrophe.  As  I  bought  my  stamps  and  posted 
my  letters  she  continued  to  discuss  its  possibili- 
ties. 

"What  a  story  it  would  make!"  she  observed. 
"A  thing  like  that  coming  down  here,  of  all  places, 
and  nobody  expecting  it.    Like  Sherlock  Holmes." 

"Very,"  I  said.  "I  must  try  my  hand  at  it  some 
day." 

"And  of  course,"  she  went  on,  "you'll  have  to 
fix  up  a  love  interest.  You  remember  you  told  me 
it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  have  one.'* 

"Yes,  I'll  try  that  too,"  I  assured  her.  "And  the 
post-mistress  as  well.  All  the  best  stories  have 
one." 


ALIENS  415 

"Don't  you  dare,"  she  called  after  me,  laughing. 

My  friend  was  busy  at  his  easel,  blocking  out 
a  poster  for  a  breakfast-food. 

"Where's  Bill.?"  I  asked.  With  a  movement  of 
his  head  as  he  reached  for  his  matches,  he  indicated 
next  door. 

Presently  she  returned,  rather  pale  and  at  first 
reluctant  to  say  very  much.  It  came  out  slowly  as 
she  arranged  it  in  her  mind. 

"She  has  seen  him,"  she  said.  "And  he  wrote  to 
her.  It  put  notions  in  her  head.  But  she  can't 
explain — in  English,  you  know.  She  kept  saying, 
*My  heart!  Oh,  my  heart!  .  .  .  '  And  yet  she's 
glad  in  a  way.  It  would  have  been  splendid  and 
awful  if  he  had — don't  you  think.'^  Just  fancy! 
.  .  .  He  was  one  of  those  men — I  did  what  I  could 
to  soothe  her  .  .  .  He  will  be  home  to-morrow, 
too,  if  all  is  well  .    .    .  Poor  thing!" 

It  is  on  the  point  of  dusk  as  we  stand  at  the 
studio- window  and  watch  him  coming  up  the  hill, 
seeking  vaguely  for  the  foot  path  in  the  snow.  He 
is  wrapped  up  warmly,  and  his  Derby  hat  is  set 
firmly  upon  his  down-bent  head.  The  corn-cob 
pipe  smokes  on  as  ever,  and  he  pauses  to  shake  out 
the  ash  as  he  steps  down  upon  the  road.  At  this 
there  is  a  sudden  rush  across  the  street  of  two 
small  men  in  scarlet  jerseys  and  caps.  He  stands 
and  looks  down  at  them,  a  quizzical  smile  on  his 
face.  Then  he  looks  up  and  seeing  us,  makes  a 
grave  gesture  of  salutation.  His  glance  sweeps 
over  to  his  house,  his  own   inviolate  home,   and 


416  ALIENS 

drops  once  again  to  liis  children  tugging  at  his  hands. 
And  then,  with  a  reflective  air,  he  steps  across  to 
the  sidewalk,  and  walks  sedately  up  to  his  door. 

THE   END 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRAOVL 


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